Continuum
by Face of Poe
Summary: Set 6 years after Reichenbach, 3 years after Sherlock's return. Things will never be quite the same for John and Sherlock, but just how much have they changed? Sherlock has never spoken in detail of his prolonged absence- what secrets are now stored in that funny old head? Not a Johnlock pairing. Includes Mary.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Welcome to a new story; thanks for clicking!

This is set 3 years after Sherlock reappears, 6 years post-Reichenbach. Some key events will be covered in flashbacks (which will be regular occurrences).

Hm, what else? Not a JohnLock, John and Mary are already married as we commence our story, and with a 15-month-old son.

I'll be aiming for weekly updates; school is a little busy the next few weeks, but never underestimate the power of procrastination and the allure of writing about these characters.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing and make no money. Just playing with others' characters for my own twisted amusement.

**Continuum**

**Chapter 1**

There were few absolutes in life, John Watson thought, sighing resignedly. Death, taxes, and Mycroft Holmes' bloody power complex, his utter inability to just _call_ John like a normal person if he had a question for the doctor. To Mycroft's credit, it had been the better part of six years since he had enlisted this sort of tactic, and John would have been more willing to forgive the unexpected maneuver were he not eager to use his hour lunch break to the fullest at the café down the street.

"I don't suppose I could grab a bite before we…" the dark-suited man holding open the door exhibited no reaction, just stared John down until he acquiesced and climbed into the back of the car beside Mycroft's latest PA. "No, okay. The British government waits for no man's stomach. Right."

"Ahem." He started and looked around. The young man, PDA in one hand, was offering him a wrapped sandwich with the other, not looking up. Well, if nothing else, Mycroft was growing more considerate with time and age. Still making amends for the events that had severed any good will between the two men for three years, John supposed.

And in the three years since, he had respected John's space and, as far as John knew, his family's privacy to a reasonable degree. Which made him optimistic that maybe this was something very important, something John would be thankful Mycroft brought to his attention. Something that _wouldn't_ frustrate him to no end, but somehow make him feel obliged to do the man's bidding.

He needn't have raised his hopes.

"John," the angular man smiled thinly, gesturing him to a seat in his impressive office. "I trust you are well. Mary and young Daniel?"

"Good, yeah."

"And your holidays in Kent?"

He had to forcibly bite back the sigh that time. They'd only just returned three days ago from two weeks with Mary's family. "They were fine. Want to say what's really on your mind?"

The tight smile widened. "Would you believe, John, I did bring you here to ask about your holidays?"

"Mm…no."

"Did Sherlock join you in Kent?"

He waited for a punch line that never came. "Why should he?" Mycroft shook his head and gave a mild shrug. "You obviously know he didn't, so…"

"He disappeared, John."

A weight settled briefly in the pit of his stomach, before logic dispelled it. "I've seen him since we returned, he came 'round for dinner."

"And I saw him this very morning. But I… lost track of him, shall we say?... the day after you departed and he did not turn up again until two days ahead of your return."

That was… unlike Sherlock. Easily seventy-five percent of his time was spent on Baker Street or at Scotland Yard or St Bart's. To not appear in any of those places for nearly two weeks… "Did he take a case somewhere? He's gone to Belarus just to interview a convict, for Christ's sake."

"It's possible; though if he traveled, he did not book a ticket in his own name."

John sat, pensive, for half a minute before he forced himself to stop. Holding up a hand, he shook his head. "Look, I'm not going to gossip and speculate behind his back. If he doesn't want to tell you or me what he's up to, he's a grown man and that's his business and your problem." Pulling himself out of the overstuffed armchair, he shrugged unhelpfully. "I need to get back to work."

"Sit, John."

He was already halfway to the door. "I'll grab a cab if I have to."

"He was clean by the time you met him."

That gave him pause, his hand resting on the door knob. Biting back a curse, he turned and stared at the older man. "Come again?"

"You never knew him when he struggled with certain… unsavory habits."

His mouth opened and closed three times, unable to put to words any of the million thoughts racing through his head. True, he hadn't known the consulting detective when he partook in anything more recreational than a cigarette; but as Mycroft had been willing to bribe a complete stranger just to check up on his brother, the problem must have been serious. "So… is this what it was like? All disappearing and secrecy?"

"Not at all," Mycroft conceded bluntly. "He was a wreck, obvious and foolhardy about it. How do you think he came into partnership with DI Lestrade?" In truth, John supposed he had never really thought about it, just envisioned Sherlock strolling into a crime scene one day and never leaving. "Arresting a genius of a junkie was a windfall for Lestrade's career, it's why he's tolerated Sherlock all these years, since he got himself back together."

John suspected that Mycroft underestimated the genuine affection and friendship between the two men, but now was hardly the time to split hairs. "So if he isn't acting like-"

"He's older; smarter. Far more self control now, if you can believe it of my rash little brother."

"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" Mycroft raised a brow. "No. I'm not looking through his socks and under his skull; I don't even live with him anymore."

"No, but you are more finely attuned to his peculiar preferences." More finely attuned than Mycroft's henchmen, John supposed sullenly.

"Look," John placed his palms flat on Mycroft's desk and leaned in towards him, "Sherlock and I are in a good place right now. It's taken some time, but we have a system, know our boundaries and this," he shook his head, "this is none of my business and, frankly, none of yours."

Mycroft sniffed. "I worry about him. I would have thought you do as well."

"You have a half-cocked hunch based on nothing more than annoyance that Sherlock managed to slip out from under your nose for more than ten minutes _once_ since he…" he trailed off and knew Mycroft was filling in the gap with _came back from the dead_.

With a mild sigh, the stiff man withdrew a file folder from the top drawer of his desk. Sliding it over to John, he rested his elbows on the desk and his chin on his intertwined fingertips. "Go on," he encouraged the doctor. Eyes narrowed in confusion, a mild bout of dread creeping into his gut, John opened it. It was gibberish at first, a load of numbers and random locations. "Sherlock delights in playing games with me," Mycroft reminded him. "Always has. He knows when he is being watched, he sees everything, you know that. But there are days when he dodges my eyes and ears until he turns up at Scotland Yard, or at your residence an hour later. And then there are days," he nodded down at the folder, "where he disappears and does not want to be found. For hours, sometimes overnight, returning to Baker Street just before dawn."

That was… less reassuring. "It's still a huge leap to drugs."

"Perhaps. But it is the one possible explanation that gives me most cause for worry; and would be most detrimental to _him_, were it true."

"Maybe he has a girlfriend." Mycroft's eyes narrowed, not amused. John sighed again, knowing that one way or another, he'd end up helping Mycroft snoop in on Sherlock. "Look, I'll ask him about running off, it's not like he doesn't know you're watching him anyway. But I'm not digging through the flat and I'm not going to throw accusations in his face. He deserves more than that from me _and _you."

X-X

_The intercom beeped, startling John. Any other day of the week and Sheila would have been out the door already at fifteen minutes past the hour, but it was Friday; she stayed late to make sure the paperwork was in order and avoid any potential calls interrupting her weekend and creating a stressful Monday morning. Scratching a few more notes on the chart of his last patient of the day, John tapped the button on his phone with his pen, not looking up. "Hm?" _

"_There's one more to see you." He opened his mouth to tell her it was after hours, but she preempted him. "He insists. Says it's urgent."_

"_Send him to A&E then," John murmured back, "we aren't exactly emergency care here." Some people- hated the hospital so much, they'd wait until the last minute and only go so far as the closest surgery for a problem that would have been easier treated weeks earlier._

_A full minute passed, Sheila was obviously arguing with the man. When she finally paged back, her voice was resigned and frustrated. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, he's really very insistent. And a bit belligerent," she added under her breath. _

_He sighed. "Send him in before you get in a row." He continued at his file as even, heavy footsteps approached his office door. As the door opened, he leaned down to slide the paperwork into the appropriate folder in the cabinet. "R, r, r," he skimmed through the alphabet, "what seems to be the problem?" he called up over his desk. _

"_I have been reliably informed," a cool, quiet voice that was horridly familiar, a voice at once from his dreams and his nightmares, "that I am dead." _

_John Watson jerked suddenly, smacking his head on the front of his sturdy wooden desk. Clutching the spot he can already tell will sport an impressive bruise and goose egg later, he withdrew quickly from the file drawer and gaped at the doorway to his office. _

_Tall, somehow taller and larger than life, he was there. Cool grey-blue eyes under a cocked-brow expression, he was working his leather gloves off his hands finger by finger. He sported a coat similar to his trademark garment, slightly different and not quite bulky enough to hide the physical toll 'death' had taken on his already lean body. _

_For a minute, maybe two, John Watson stared at the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, standing there three years later, same expression, same damn purple scarf, his thoughts racing a kilometer a minute as to the hows and the whys… and then he just stopped, cleared his head, stood smoothly and side-stepped his former flat-mate. _

"_I have a date," he mumbled, and left before Sheila could ask him about his last-minute mystery patient._

X-X

_He sat in his small flat for half an hour, unmoving, eyes wide open and staring at the floor but seeing nothing. Had he finally gone 'round the bend? No, Sheila had witnessed it, too. It was him, down to the last tousled curl on his head. Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. Three years later, three years since he had plummeted from the rooftop of St Bart's, three years… Christ, three years since they'd buried him in the cold ground. _

_Alive. Well, if anyone could have done it, it was obviously Sherlock. He'd asked- begged- at his graveside to discover that final miracle, that the great Sherlock Holmes had pulled off the cleverest trick of them all. But three years? How was he to forgive that duration of time? What possible explanation could excuse the agony he'd been put through? _

_Explanation. He hadn't even asked for one. Simply walked out. Sherlock had not protested, probably foresaw the reaction. Of course he had a good explanation… surely. Sentiment may not have been his strong suit, but he could not have been so oblivious to it as to not foresee the emotional consequences his death would render upon himself, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Myc…_

_Mycroft? _

_John swore and clambered to his feet, snatching his phone from the dining table, shooting off a quick text to Mary apologizing and canceling their date, and was out the door seconds later and calling for a cab. _

X-X

The image of Sherlock interacting with a small child would never look quite natural, John had concluded fifteen months prior when the man had to be practically dragged to visit the newborn after they had brought Daniel home from hospital. He'd refused to hold the infant until he was nearly two months old and less "fragile-looking," and still generally preferred his distance.

Of course, John could in no way conjure a mental image of Sherlock as a child, so it was unsurprising that he should be so awkward with kids as an adult. Even at just over a year old, the detective regarded Daniel with an air that seemed to suggest that he was just waiting for the child to grow into some sort of useful role in life, rather than the needy, fussy, squalling thing that whined if kept up too late and needed others to provide all basic comforts.

John wasn't foolish enough to think that Sherlock hadn't already picked up on his reluctant unease as he made stiff small talk with Mary through tea and regarded Daniel through narrowed eyes whenever the toddler tried to climb onto the sofa beside him or, for that matter, even came too near. He offered a 'thank you' after the thought when Mary was already almost out the door with the tea tray, earning a bemused smile over her shoulder.

Daniel trailed after her; it would be time for his nap now anyway and then Mary would begin prepping for dinner, giving John and Sherlock time alone to talk. He hadn't shared details of his conversation with Mycroft with his wife, but had told her of the abduction off the street in front of the surgery where he worked. It was the same clinic where Sarah had hired him, though much of the building had undergone a recent renovation, and Sarah herself had moved on as well, married now.

"Any good cases lately then?"

A soft huff answered him. "Dull. As usual. Lestrade might be getting thicker with age, in mind _and_ body."

"Be nice." Sherlock gave him a light smirk and then became serious again, studying him over his clasped hands, eyes piercing and taking in every little detail in that uncanny way of his. "Look… I don't really know how to-"

"Didn't take Mycroft long, did it?"

Shit. So much for an ill-contrived attempt at subtlety. "Well, you know what he's like."

"Overbearing. Condescending. Insufferable." John paused, frowned, looked pointedly at the other man. "Oh, shut up."

"Far be it from me to defend Mycroft, you can't really blame him, can you?"

"I find things proceed much quicker if I blame him without reservation and move on."

A silence that bordered on terse settled between the two men, before John uncomfortably cleared his throat. "So more secrets then?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in mild surprise. "'Secret' implies withholding information which you might have a reasonable expectation to access. Mycroft wonders what I'm up to when I fail to sit, shake, and roll over on command. Do you, John?"

"No!" he protested, feeling the conversation quickly slipping between his fingers. "I just thought th-"

"Do not think, observe."

"I don't know you anymore!" he exclaimed finally, then instantly wanted to take the words back. Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion or curiosity, he did not seem particularly bothered or offended at the assertion. "Obviously I didn't mean…"

"Things will never be the same," Sherlock conceded. "Just me and you against the world…" he glanced pointedly towards the door through which Mary and Daniel had disappeared. "And that's… fine. All fine."

John grinned lopsidedly. "When we lived together, you could never be bothered to do the shopping and had to have me fetch your mobile when it was in the pocket of the _shirt you were wearing_."

"You miss that?"

"God, no," he laughed, but then sobered quickly and regarded his friend closely. "The last six years have changed you, Sherlock; have changed me, too. But your brother is still living in the same controlling bubble, is all. He'll throw his fit and move on."

It was painfully obvious, now that he'd talked and thought it out; John wasn't sure how Mycroft had convinced him to confront Sherlock in the first place, looking back. The fact was simply that Sherlock was far more independent now, and it was hardly unexpected; he'd spent three years on his own without having John to fetch the milk or Mycroft to help him gain access to secret places.

Three years he had still never spoken of in significant detail. Not to John, certainly not to Mycroft, and it grated on the government official to no end. As the fact that his brother still had aspects of his life unknown to him still grated on him. Ah well; if Mycroft asked about it again, John would tell him to sod right off. Hell, maybe Sherlock _did_ have a girlfriend, boyfriend… something. It didn't matter.

And anyway, John took Sherlock's advice and observed. Observed the way he was his same old self deep down, as much as he tried to be socially proper through dinner for Mary's sake. Observed the way his eyes would suddenly light up and he'd fire off a text, probably to Lestrade, and then resume the conversation where he'd left it minutes prior to pursue some sudden line of mental inquiry.

And he observed the way Sherlock betrayed his professed discomfort with children by picking up Daniel when he was tired and cranky, his mother occupied with cleaning up from dinner and John with a phone call from a patient; whatever low words he murmured to the toddler, John could not hear as he watched out the corner of his eye, but they comforted the boy who twined one hand through Sherlock's curly hair and rested his head on the tall man's shoulder.

He had not known Sherlock long before he knew he would trust his life in the man's hands. His instincts had proven wise, unbeknownst to him at the time, when Sherlock had given up everything to protect his closest friends. And today, he knew unequivocally, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, that he would trust the lives of his wife and son with him as well.

Yes, Mycroft Holmes could sod off indeed.

X-X

**A/N: **Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks for the follows and review. :-)

**Chapter 2**

After the third ignored text in an hour from Mycroft, Mary finally gave in and asked her husband what was going on between him and the Holmes brothers. He gave a humorless laugh and offered a vague rundown of Mycroft's snooping and suspicions and how ridiculous he'd found them after talking to Sherlock.

"It's just - I don't know, obviously Mycroft is right and I _didn't_ know him then but…"

"You know him now," she finished softly.

That's not what he had told Sherlock. A quick flash of guilt went through him, though Sherlock had been unfazed by the outburst. "It's not- we don't know one another like we once did, you know? But I don't trust him any less."

"Maybe you should spend more time with him again. Do you both some good. Calm his brother's nerves too." As if on cue, Daniel could be heard over the monitor whimpering in his sleep, reminding them of how exhausting at times the past fifteen months had been. He grinned wryly and she shrugged. "The term is almost over and my schedule is much lighter in the spring. Rearrange your hours at the surgery," she suggested, adding with a wink, "I'd like to see some of that roguish John Watson that Lestrade reminisces about sometimes."

He laughed but shook his head. "It's not so simple as that, you understand. Living with the man, that flat- fingers in the microwave, heads in the icebox… Cluedo board stabbed to the wall, violin at three in the morning… it's not something we'll be able to recreate by letting him criticize my ordinary brain while he works out a case once a week."

Nevertheless, he heeded Mary's advice and arranged to come 'round Baker Street the following Saturday. Feeling like a stranger in his own life, he paid the cabbie and stood in front of the café that looked the same as always. There was a young woman at the door just ringing the bell, and John glanced curiously at her turned back before his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_Held up at Bart's- have some tea. –SH_

John wondered if Sherlock was taking a page out of Mycroft's book and spying on him somehow, had skillfully estimated his time of arrival (the most likely option), or just had coincidentally good timing.

"John, dear!" Mrs. Hudson had answered the door for the visitor. "Do come in, you'll catch cold out here, a bit nippy isn't it…?"

Getting older, her hip discomfort more prominent than he remembered from his last visit, he still couldn't help but smile at his fussing, bustling former landlady. The young woman hovered in the foyer, looking him over with cool disinterest. "Hello then."

"Sherlock told me you'd be by," Mrs. Hudson released him from a tight hug, "said to go on upstairs and make yourself at home if he wasn't back yet. I'll bring up some nibbles once I show Heather here the flat." John frowned in confusion. "Oh, I've had this one fixed up at last," she opened the lock on the door to 221C. "Such a lovely place now."

"Right," John smiled at Heather before starting up the stairs to 221B, "cheers. Hope you don't mind the violin."

She looked questioningly at Mrs. Hudson, but the old lady shook her head and called up the stairs after him. "Oh, Sherlock doesn't play anymore, dear."

That ground him to a halt. "Doesn't he?"

"Mm, not that I've heard. I suppose he prefers the quiet for thinking now. Such a shame, he played such pretty tunes…"

If she said anything else, it was for Heather's ears only as the door to 221C swung shut behind them.

He trudged the rest of the way to his old flat, feeling almost apprehensive as he pushed open the door, as if that startling revelation meant everything else should be different. But it looked the same from when he'd last visited a month ago and indeed, quite similar to how it had looked when he had lived there. Less furniture but more clutter, if possible, in the main living area; the equipment and experiments were back in the kitchen, the dining table completely sacrificed in the name of science these days. Sherlock didn't eat regularly enough to be bothered with the formalities of the practice.

Oddities aside, Sherlock was nevertheless a true Brit, and the one thing easily located in the mess of a kitchen was the kettle. He washed it out and set it to boiling, then dug through the cupboards for a second cup and saucer. Everything was so singular here, and it caused yet another flash of guilt. With work and Daniel… he simply hadn't come 'round as often as he used to, those first eighteen months or so after Sherlock had swept back into his life with a furor.

_How had he not even known that Sherlock had abandoned his musical passion?_

Waiting for the water to boil, he returned to the living room and glanced around. The old music stand was gone from where it had once stood by the window, replaced by a ghoulish replication- he hoped it was a replication- of a full-size human skeleton. A friend for the skull, he supposed; at least _that_ remained in its customary place on the mantel.

Perhaps he'd done away with the instrument entirely- John didn't think so though. Sherlock didn't throw things away, a fact made obvious just looking around the place. Sherlock's room was kept to more functional and organized standards, but as far as John knew, his old room was basically storage right now. Cursing his curiosity, he opened the door to the room that had been his home for two long, infuriating, exhilarating, brilliant years of his life.

He felt a little melancholy and wistful, thinking back to those days. He wouldn't trade what he had now with Mary and Daniel for anything, but the thrill of chasing after killers and breaking into top secret Army installations was a little enviable compared to treating flu patients and changing nappies.

The clutter was astonishingly organized into boxes in here, assorted tools and equipment he supposed were used less often than the stuff with a prime spot in the kitchen; some articles of clothing, several boxes of books- and there, on top of the old dresser…

_Two _violin cases? He'd only had the one before, right?

Cursing his damnable curiosity even more strongly this time, he opened the latches on the first case, the one he recognized from so long ago. The instrument looked fine, a little dusty but none the worse for wear.

The first one looked fine; but even to John's untrained musical eye, the violin held in the second case was stunning, the dark wood pristine and unscuffed, an intricate engraving encircling the tip of the bow. Even the rosin case was a rich wood to match. The hinged lid had not shut all the way though and he frowned, picking up the box and idly noting the shiny fingerprints his nervous hands were leaving on it, as though Sherlock were going to come sweeping in and dusting for evidence that he'd been snooping through his things.

Pulling the lid open, he quickly saw the reason for the ill-fit. There was something else in the box, shoved in beside the bar of rosin, a small, folded piece of paper…

No, not folded. Sealed, skillfully. A pouch.

"Fuck."

The word escaped his lips unbidden and he looked around as though Mrs. Hudson would be there to berate him for language. He turned back and gingerly examined the find. His years at uni and in the army left him with no doubt as to the general nature of what was contained inside the small pouch; his years as a doctor insisted on knowing the specific nature, so he knew exactly how much of a verbal lashing Sherlock deserved and whether or not he _should_ tell Mycroft, despite his adamant refusal to snoop. Well, he'd done it anyway, and he wasn't even looking for what he found.

Breathing heavily, it took him several seconds to realize that the ringing in his ears was the whistle of the boiling kettle, and he pocketed the drug, threw the violin case shut, and got unsteadily to his feet.

X-X

_The Diogenes Club was nearly empty. A Friday evening, he supposed even state officials and ambassadors made some time for their nearly forgotten families. Mycroft would be here, though how John knew it, he could not say. And sure enough, near the far side of the room, as distant as possible from the two other, far older occupants, the elder Holmes brother was glancing at his mobile before returning to his newspaper._

_Though not a member of the club, the guard standing post by the front door had waved him on after a glance at his military identification and a quick consultation of what must have been an approved guest list on his PDA. John's name had been placed on that list some four years ago; Mycroft must have either forgotten, or not expected him to ever show his face here again. _

_Based on the thin eyebrows shooting into his hairline, John suspected the latter. "We need to talk," he said lowly, dangerously, ignoring the sacred rules of the quiet room. The other two occupants glanced around curiously, but were not quick to summon security at this single encroachment. _

_Mycroft needed no further prompting; he stood quickly and swept from the room ahead of John, leading the way up a sweeping staircase and down a corridor to his office. John waited until they had entered the office before rounding on the older man with a fury. _

"_Three years. Three _bloody_ years, Mycroft. I'll bet it was hilarious, hm? Stupid John Watson, average, _ordinary_ John Watson, pining away after his dead best friend…"_

"_John, whatever I've done to offend-"_

"_You're a right bastard," he nearly shouted. "I'm sure Sherlock had his reasons but for you to let me go on pathetic like this-"_

"_John," Mycroft spoke sternly. "It's hard for all of us this time of year, but you cannot continue to dwell on the past. Sherlock is dead," he enunciated the last three words clearly and carefully. _

_Rage swelled up in him and he grabbed the taller man by the lapels of his neatly pressed suit. A mixture of confusion and the beginnings of fear began to swim in Mycroft's eyes, but the creaking of the door opening and a firm, authoritative voice made them both turn. _

"_John, release him." The horror on Mycroft's face was enough for John to realize his mistake and predict Sherlock's next words. "He did not know." John backed off immediately, eyes never leaving Sherlock even as they welled up in unshed tears. Sherlock gave him a half-smile that was part apologetic, part… appreciation… and turned to look at Mycroft. "Brother dear. Long time it has been."_

"_You're looking unwell." _

_John frowned between the two men. Sure, Sherlock looked leaner than before- and he'd always been thin- but unwell? _

"_Death takes its toll."_

"_Hm," he looked his younger brother up and down a few more times, seeming to take his sudden reappearance better in stride than had John, "I'll need a full report, of course." _

"_No." Mycroft raised a brow, gestured the two men into chairs; both ignored him in a strange sort of three-way stand-off, no two people quite on one another's side. "You don't get this part of my life, Mycroft. It is done and buried and there shall it stay."_

X-X

The sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice on the stairs startled him from his reverie in which he was automatically going through the motions to serve the tea; he jerked, and sent a saucer crashing to shatter on the tile floor.

There was a lull, and then: "Oh dear, I hope that wasn't anything valuable, Sherlock. Speaking of noises, John was just asking today about your violin-playing. I told him you hadn't taken it back up as far as I've heard," the door to the flat swung open and John froze in the midst of looking for a broom to clean up the shards of the broken dish; he met Sherlock's gaze, saw his eyes narrow as he read God-knew-what in John's expression, and then his look quickly darted around the flat, lingering on the door to John's old room that was still open. "Maybe you can bring it out and play some Christmas tunes for us again this year, hm?"

"I would be delighted, Mrs. Hudson," he informed her lowly, taking a plate of biscuits from her hand and kissing her cheek lightly. "Remind me next month."

"Of course; ooh," the bell rang, and she turned to head back downstairs before the door had even closed, "that'll be someone else to look at the flat downstairs. I'll see you boys later, how wonderful it is to have you both here again, just like old days…"

She continued talking to herself as she made her way back down. Sherlock grabbed the broom from where it was hidden beside the refrigerator, and calmly pushed John aside to clean up the mess. Once that was done, the shards deposited in the waste bin, he held out a hand expectantly, his grey eyes narrowing in a challenging expression when John made no move.

Reluctantly, he handed over the pouch and then felt the need to justify his actions. "Look, I wasn't snooping…"

"I know," Sherlock informed him evenly, turning to the sink and running the tap. "The natural curiosity about your old residence, paired with Mrs. Hudson's declaration that I've given up the violin- the direction it led you was perfectly well to be expected." He pulled the pouch open and shook it over the sink; grey-white powder disappeared down the drain with the water and, for good measure, he tore up the paper and tossed it down too. "Now go, sit."

Anxiety peaking, John clutched his cup of tea and sat on the sofa, watching Sherlock warily as the detective smoothly slid into the chair across. "You have questions."

"What was it?"

"I believe the colloquial term is 'speedball.' A combination of-"

"_Je-sus_," John cut him off. "I know what it is. Doctor, remember? Sherlock, that stuff can so easily _kill_ you, do you get that?"

His friend frowned dubiously. "I hardly see how as I've washed it down the drain, do observe more carefully, John."

"You think this is funny?" he demanded incredulously.

"No- but then, your placid, ordinary brain does not even understand enough to make that assessment."

"Go to hell."

"I've already been, John. Where do you think that," he nodded back towards the kitchen, "came from?"

X-X

_He couldn't see Mary, not for a couple days while he sorted everything out in his mind. Their date had been canceled with little explanation, and then he practically disappeared, only texted her once the next day to assure her that things were fine but something had come up to distract him. She tried to respect his need for space, he had to give her that, but he could tell she was frustrated. Rightfully so. They were due to get married in three months, it probably didn't speak volumes that he wouldn't confide in her if he were struggling with something. _

_But Sherlock. How could he even begin to explain to her when he himself did not understand? Mary had been his rock, had held him while he mourned at his best friend's graveside on the cold morning of the anniversary of that fateful fall. Had stuck by him as he slowly opened up about Sherlock, dealt with his strange mood swings when something would remind him of the detective and send him into a sullen stupor. And now he'd be forced to tell her it was all… a lie? _

"_I'm getting married, you know." Sitting across John's flat, Sherlock merely nodded once, evenly. Face betraying no emotion John could discern. "Mary's nice, you'd like her." He paused, then gave a half-hearted laugh. "No, you wouldn't. You'd find some reason to dislike her like all the others. But she's sweet and smart. Witty." _

"_I'd expect no less from your choice of companion." _

_A compliment. A sort of teasing one, given that Sherlock himself had been his constant companion, for a time._

_An awkward silence filled the air between them. Was this what they were reduced to? Small talk and uncomfortable pleasantries? _

"_Where are you staying then?"_

"_I don't know," he murmured, tone indicating it was the first he'd given thought to the matter._

_John blinked. "You don't- where have you been since you… got back?" _Got back?_ As if he'd simply returned from an extended vacation. _

"_I only just landed Friday afternoon." _

_Landed, and proceeded almost immediately to the surgery where John worked. "And you haven't slept since?" It was now Sunday morning. _

"_Sleep is dull."_

"_You never sleep if you're working on a case." Silence. "Sherlock? Are you still…?" _

"_No," he cut him off quickly. "No. Just… readapting to London. Lot to take in."_

X-X

He swallowed thickly, a lump forming in his throat. "Take me through it then?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and sat back in the armchair. "No."

"Oh." Right, then.

"You take _me_ through it."

He spluttered dribbling tea down his chin which he hastily wiped away with a sleeve. "What?"

"The facts are all there before you."

"You've never told me about your three year absence." Three years… in hell? Right- okay. He could do this. "Alright, hold on, give us a minute."

"Take your time."

And he did, maybe ten minutes during which Sherlock observed him closely, eventually heading back to the kitchen to pour them both more tea and grab the plate of biscuits, though neither touched any yet. John was too engrossed in thought and Sherlock- well, he was Sherlock.

It didn't take him as long as all that to reach the inevitable conclusion- but he worked it over repeatedly in his mind, hoping a better one would present itself. When he failed to come up with anything, he swallowed thickly and cleared his throat. "You knew the drug could kill you- depending where you acquired it, maybe that it probably _would- _it's why you bought it. In a fit of suicidal depression."

"Go on."

"That's all I've got."

"How did you get there?"

Sherlock looked genuinely curious, expectant. John still felt as though he were intruding on his friend's privacy but then again, he supposed the damage was already done on that front. "The violin. Well, two of them. You aren't just disinterested in them anymore, you've packed them away, but not so far as to erase all sight and memory of them. A reminder of… something." Sherlock offered no further clue as to what that something might be. "Something happened to you, something bad. Something you can't dissociate from the music, something that made you think about…"

He couldn't finish that sentence. Wouldn't.

"And it was while you were gone, because that second instrument wasn't here before you left, but you haven't played it since you've been back."

"Very good."

"But the fact that you brought it at all- it must have some meaning for you, 'else why bother?" Who wanted to be continuously reminded of such a dark period in their life? "Where did it come from?"

"It was a gift." A gift? A strange period of his life to be receiving presents from anyone. Sherlock read the question in his face though, smiled lightly, and shook his head. "That, John, is a story for another day. Soon," he added. "But not today."

"It's been three years, why tell me now of all times?" He had hardly proven himself the most steadfast of friends in the past week, after all.

But it seemed Sherlock's inclination to share had passed. He rose to his feet and crossed to the rack to grab his coat and scarf. "I have an important matter to see to next Friday afternoon and should like you by my side; will that be possible?"

"Wha- oh," he was caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "Yeah, of course." His colleagues at the surgery might not like it, as he'd just returned from holiday, but he would make it work. He owed it to Sherlock.

"Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"Out. Maybe Angelo's? It's too," he waved his hand vaguely, "stuffy in here. Dull, boring. Nothing interesting to blog about."

Despite himself, John grinned as he pulled his own coat back on. "I haven't touched that in years."

"Maybe it's nigh on time you started again," Sherlock winked and swept out the door, bounding down the stairs with the adventuresome energy of a new case. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," he called in the foyer and, turning up his coat collar, he ducked out into the cold of Baker Street, John following close behind.

X-X

**A/N: Thanks for reading!**

**Until next time- cheers!**


	3. Chapter 3

**As ever, a big thanks for reading and reviewing. Onwards!**

**Chapter 3**

It was raining- no surprise, that. A typical November day in London, full of typical people doing typical things. John Watson got out of a typical London taxi and stepped over the small river in the gutter up onto the typical sidewalk and stared up at the typical old hospital. And felt a typical sense of unease brought on by every rare occurrence he'd had to visit this place in the past six years.

The taxi sped off in search of another fare, splashing puddle water up onto his back- typical. Shaking off like a wet dog, he crossed the pavement and ducked under the overhang outside the front entrance of Saint Bartholomew's. Earning a disapproving glare from the attendant at the help desk, he traipsed wet footprints into the tile corridor and, smiling in a vaguely apologetic manner, hurried off towards the lift that would take him down to the morgue.

This had never seemed a morbid meeting place, until the person he was meeting had been presumed dead for three long years after falling from the roof of the very same building. Now it held a decided distaste, and John could feel the bitter shock of adrenaline creeping up into his throat before he forcefully rammed it back down. He'd toyed with the idea of telling Sherlock they should meet up somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, but in the end, he would have to just deal. Sherlock wouldn't understand the residual feelings he had about this place so he may as well save himself the frustration.

He found Sherlock in the lab, and watched him from the doorway a moment, smile finally teasing around the edges of his lips. He looked precisely the same as ever, intent on something on the microscope stand, oblivious to everything else in the room as he manipulated the dials and swapped out the slides.

"John! Hi!"

Molly Hooper slipped through the door beside him cradling a hot cup of coffee. He smiled warmly as he greeted her, but cringed a little for her inside- six years on and two promotions later, and she was still fetching Sherlock coffee?

But then she settled in at her own work station across the lab from Sherlock and kept the coffee to herself. So maybe some things had changed.

"Fetch me my phone, would you."

Or maybe not. John opened his mouth to ask the resigned question of where it was, when Molly spoke up first.

"Sherlock."

"Hm."

"Fetch your own mobile."

He looked up at her and blinked in surprise; then felt his own shirt pocket and withdrew the offending device as his gaze slid over to John, who was grinning broadly at the exchange. "Do shut up."

"Didn't say anything," he held up his hands defensively. "What are you working on, then?"

"Oh," he murmured as he tapped at his phone for a moment, "waste of time. The poisoned dates were clearly imported from Morocco."

John exchanged a quick and befuddled look with Molly, who shrugged and went back to whatever she was working on. "Right. So what are we doing? What's the important matter you have to take care of? Something more than poisoned Moroccan dates, yes?"

Sherlock finished whatever text or email he was working on and pocketed his phone. He drew on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "We'll have to grab a cab."

"Yes, but-"

"Come along, John, we'll be late." He was already out the door, calling over his shoulder, voice echoing in the empty white corridors. Molly glanced up at him and shrugged again before resuming her work. Clearly, she and Sherlock had resumed a working relationship as before that included just as much running off with little explanation as ever. Sighing- hadn't he just arrived?- he followed Sherlock to the lift, ready to head back out into the crisp London rain.

Once outside- past the glaring desk attendant who hadn't forgotten John's wet tracks- Sherlock held up a hand to hail the taxi that was approaching with such perfect timing, John wondered if Sherlock had called it prior to his arrival. He slid inside and scooted across the seat, Sherlock falling in behind him. "Heathrow," he called to the driver as he pulled the door shut.

The cab pulled away from the curb as John whipped around. "Wait, what? Are we going somewhere?"

"We are going to Heathrow."

"No, I mean- you know what I mean, don't be a prat."

"Be logical, John, I did not tell you to bring a passport. Rest assured, you'll be home in time to tuck Daniel into bed."

_Did not tell _you_ to bring a passport… _"Are _you_ going somewhere, then?"

A silence that probably lasted no more than ten or twenty seconds but seemed to stretch on an eternity filled the air between them, as his mind went in all sorts of horrible directions. Was Sherlock leaving again? Where was he going? Did it have to do with Mycroft's sudden aggressive interest in his unexplained disappearances?

"No," he finally answered, "I am not going anywhere."

"Then wha-?"

"I promised you a story. In its own way, that story begins- and ends- with a trip to Heathrow. Many of my stories do."

John swallowed nervously. Sherlock was sounding very… unlike Sherlock. "What do you mean?"

"Four weeks ago to New York; three years ago to Mumbai; six years ago to Monaco." He paused. "Seven years ago, to Karachi." When the meaning of the words- and the timing- caught up with him, John coughed violently and looked at his former flat mate in alarm. "It was a kind lie; remind me to thank Mycroft some day."

_Jesus_. A dozen questions rose to the tip of his tongue- did he save her, or was he too late, primarily- but he was sufficiently cowed by the revelation that Sherlock had known about his falsehood from the start to raise any of them. Instead, he settled back in his seat and stewed upon the information Sherlock had just given him, information Mycroft had so desperately craved, about his whereabouts while John was in Kent.

X-X

_John reluctantly insisted the returned detective kip out that night on his sofa. Sherlock disappeared early in the afternoon, reportedly to go see Mrs. Hudson, perhaps even deign to speak with Mycroft again. He did not return for hours, and part of John almost wished he would stay away- let him move on with the life he'd carved out in the last three years. Sherlock… complicated things. Undeniably so. But at quarter past midnight- long after Mrs. Hudson would have gone to bed, so just what had Sherlock been up to?- he heard the door creak open and click shut again. When he woke the following morning, Sherlock didn't once stir as he got ready for work; perhaps his sleepless nights had wrought a greater toll on him than he cared to admit. _

_Sherlock did finally wake a little after ten a.m. to the sounds of someone moving about the kitchen. "John?" he slurred sleepily, stumbling off the sofa. His brain caught up with him as a soft gasp signaled someone's surprise- a feminine gasp. _

_Bollocks. The back of the sofa faced the door; without peering over it, she'd have never noticed him. She? Mary, of course. Mary Morstan, John's fiancée. Sweet, smart, witty. Now hiding from him in the kitchen. Hiding, not running, which meant she felt she had an advantage if he followed after her. _

_Kitchen; heavy and sharp tools. But she'd made no noise of clanging around for a pan, and she couldn't rule out that he had a legitimate reason to be here. No lasting harm then. _

_He entered the kitchen and smoothly seized her wrist, spinning her around and relieving her of the small canister. Holding it aloft and retreating a safe distance from her shocked and gaping form, he raised a brow. "Pepper spray? Illegal, that. But I suppose when your fiancé is friends with a detective inspector, such things can be overlooked. Like his highly illegal Browning." The shock was not draining from her face, but it was shifting from fear to astonishment. "Ms. Morstan," he held out his hand. "I'm She-"_

"_I know who you are," she interrupted softly. "And here I thought John's sudden distance this weekend was about your death, not your revival." _

_Of course; tomorrow was three years to the day. _

"_Well go on and get yourself cleaned up." He glanced down at his rumpled shirt and trousers, he'd collapsed before changing upon returning late the prior night. "And let's get some brunch."_

"_I'm not hungry."_

_Her lips twitched in a half-smile. "And I don't care."_

_X-X_

"_So, Mary," Sherlock sipped at his coffee contemplating the oddity of the scene, the two of them in a café together less than an hour after they'd met, "what do you do?"_

"_Is this you being polite?" she grinned cheekily. "As if you didn't already know."_

"_Teacher," he supplied readily. "University, by your flexible schedule and free Monday morning, that's all too easy. You've been marking this morning, red ink still stained between the fingers of your left-hand. Ambidextrous to at least a competent degree, as you made to assault me from the right."_

"_Anything else, detective?"_

_He studied her over steepled fingertips. "You were orphaned as a child- that locket," he nodded at the pendant around her neck, "old, too old to have come from John and the initials, WM and TS- your parents, an engagement gift perhaps, perhaps an anniversary if your mother did not elect to adopt your father's surname. They died at the same time, 'else the locket would have been buried with the latter to perish, an accident then. House fire?"_

"_Yes," she returned softly, "how could you possibly guess that?"_

"_Your first action upon sitting was to blow out the table candle, you did it without thought or explanation, an impulsive reflex of someone uncomfortable with flames, however benign."_

_Mary stared at the small round glass that held the extinguished candle, barely remembering the move. He could have learned all that from John, in fairness but… she didn't think so. "Anything else?"_

"_We could delve into your current profession, your motivations for studying psychology born of your angry, troubled teen years in which you were forced to see numerous counselors until your foster parents found one you related to, listened to, the one who gave you that bracelet upon your graduation at Kent. But I suspect you've gleaned enough from your own observations to occupy your mind until today's lecture, don't you?" He stood and laid a few crisp notes on the table. "Afraid I must be off; until our paths should cross again, Mary Morstan."_

_X-X_

_Somewhere honing in on a dozen times she had picked up her mobile to send John a text, informing him about the unexpected encounter with Sherlock Holmes. Each time though, her fingers stilled at the buttons and she laid the phone back in her lap and stared blankly out the windows of the Tube car, nothing to see besides the dark walls of the Underground rushing past._

_Exactly what stopped her, she was not sure; perhaps the instinctive knowledge that he would rather bring up Sherlock in his own time. Well, maybe not so instinctive as obvious from the way he'd shut down and shut her out over the weekend. She couldn't blame him- hadn't even gotten the story from Sherlock, but knew it did not matter. Whatever it was, however he was here and alive, had surely rocked her fiancé to his core. His appearance had certainly stunned her and she'd never known the man. _

_Absentmindedly, she fiddled with the locket around her neck and smiled wistfully. He was certainly something. A brazen force to be reckoned with, at the very least._

_The ten minute walk from the Tube stop to the building that held her office was uneventful; but then, a flurry of commotion greeted her at the entrance of the psychology department. Three of her colleagues and the student office aide were gathered around the telly, and one of them, Doctor Parsi, called to her worriedly as she entered. _

"_Oh, Mary, we were just about to text and make sure everything's alright." Confusion outweighed the worry, though the latter was battling for dominance. "Have you seen the news?" _

_Wordlessly, she shook her head and stepped forward to where a news broadcast was being filmed halfway across the city. _London Surgery Fire.

"_That's where John works, isn't it?" _

"_I-" Her mobile buzzed, cutting her off. She quickly glanced at it, sighing in instant relief. It was John. _

'_Everyone's alright, if you've seen the news. Been talking to police. Probably just an accident.' _

_She fired back a quick response, telling him to take care of himself and call when he could, offered a reassuring smile and explanation to her concerned coworkers, and then slipped into the privacy of her own office before allowing the panicked sensation to take over. Her breathing sped up, a heavy weight settled into her stomach and the blood rushing through her ears was deafening. _

_An accident? Awfully coincidental one. It couldn't have been a half hour from Sherlock's deduction about her sensitivity to fire to the incident at John's work._

_What were the chances?_

X-X

As they neared their destination after what were possibly the longest twenty-five minutes of John Watson's life, Sherlock leaned forward and directed the cabbie. "Terminal three. International arrivals." He couldn't bring himself to find that information particularly surprising; at least it confirmed Sherlock's assertion that he wasn't running off anywhere himself.

They were dropped at the curb outside the terminal. Sherlock paid the driver, who scooted up the curb barely ten meters before picking up another fare. John trailed after him as he headed into the building, awkwardly skirting around crowds that Sherlock navigated ahead of him with natural grace and ease. "I have a question," he said as he caught up.

"Fire away," Sherlock drawled in an affected American accent, eyeing a group of young tourists decked to the nines in apparel that clearly announced their arrival from 'The Big Apple' and Washington, D.C.

"Does Mycroft know we're here?"

"No. Contrary to his frustrated beliefs, it requires no significant effort to escape from under his watchful nose. All it takes is picking up a cab quickly enough in the right place." Of course- Sherlock _had_ called the taxi ahead of time, aiming to be in it and on his way before any of Mycroft's eyes had a chance to blink. "Even if someone caught the number on the car, it's a long drive through crowded London streets between there and here."

John hesitated before asking the next question. "And is it important that Mycroft not know we're here, or are we just spiting him?"

Sherlock actually grinned, turning and looking down at him as they ascended an escalator. "Bit of both."

They were on the Customs level, lines of travelers passing through booths and promising stoic Customs agents not to have packed any illicit goods in their bags. Baggage claim was down the way, a smattering of information booths for hotels and vehicle rentals in between. Sherlock bypassed all of them and ducked into a small coffee bar that stood opposite the row of luggage carousels.

"Black, two sugars," Sherlock requested. "And another, just black."

John shook his head at his friend as he paid for the drinks and carried them to an empty table in the back of the small alcove. He set the second drink across the table and raised an impatient brow at John, who walked over and sat across from him. "Sherlock, what are we doing?"

"Chatting."

"We came to Heathrow for a chat?"

"Why not?"

John shook his head in exasperation, but resigned himself to the detective's oddities and took a cautious sip of his hot drink. "Did you drug this one, too?" _Christ_, was that the worst timing imaginable. "Sorry," he winced. "Kidding, obviously."

Sherlock held his paper cup in one hand but did not drink from it yet. Rather, he stared at John in that way that suggested he was reading his soul as if it were laid before him like a book. It was Sherlock though so it may as well have been. "Why did you keep the gun?"

"Come again?"

"The Browning. The trouble that could cause you if someone on the police force cared to stop pretending they don't know you have it…" John shook his head- this was hardly the direction he'd expected this 'chat' to take. "Not so different, you and I, in the end. We simply prefer different method to our madness."

"What are you-? I kept it 'cause it was useful which you damn well know given that it's saved your life once or twice."

Sherlock simply lifted his brows, almost admonishingly, and sipped his own coffee. _Not so different_- what in the bloody hell was that supposed to mean?

Except he did know what it meant. He wasn't surprised that Sherlock had gleaned the information from him, just that the detective with no verbal filter had never once alluded to the knowledge before today. Returning to his drink if only for something to distract him and give him a few precious seconds to think, he cast about for a response, any response. There wasn't one, not really, so he turned his attention to the revelations from the ride between St Bart's and here.

"Why did you go to Monaco?" Six years ago, he was surely referring to his departure from London after his faked suicide. "Moriarty's top-secret headquarters or something?"

"Hardly," he scoffed. "As you have probably guessed, I spent those three years doing a significant amount of traveling, running, hiding- all expensive habits, when done well. I needed money."

John blinked. "And you… what, have millions in Holmes family money stashed in Monaco or something?"

A bark of laughter answered him. "Use your head, John, what is Monaco best known for?"

"Ah… American princesses, Formula One, Gambling… what, no. Don't tell me."

"A fast means of procuring a substantial sum, if one knows what he is doing."

His answering laugh was genuine. "Good God, they never stood a chance, did they?" Sherlock Holmes in a high roller casino; one hand in and he'd have had all their tells down, not to mention that he probably learned how to count cards on one bored afternoon by the age of seven or something. Feeling encouraged by Sherlock's willingness to confide in him at last, he finally voiced the question he really wanted an answer to. "Did you make it in time? Did you save her?"

The answer was on his lips before he paused- the lights flickered, not just in the little coffee bar but out in the arrivals area as well. It was followed by a rumble that could have been mistaken for thunder, had the table not vibrated under John's hands; the sound of shattering glass came from behind the counter.

People were getting to their feet, or peering around in confusion. John and Sherlock followed suit, moments before the alarms started sounding- and then the screams.

"Right- I take it this wasn't on today's agenda?" John stepped out from around the table and hurried to look down the long corridor towards the terminal. "Sherlock?" He turned- the detective had not moved, was standing over the table with a blank look on his face, a face that was uncharacteristically pale and peaky. "Sherlock?"

He blinked once, coming out of whatever reverie had claimed him. "No," he finally answered in a deadly calm voice. One hand clenched into a tight fist, a brief bout of rage flashing through his eyes- a fiery look John had not seen in his friend since the week he'd returned, some three years ago now- before he swept away from the table, coat billowing behind him. "No, it was not. Come on, John."

And together, they pushed through the throng of people hurrying away from the scene of the incident. Heading in the opposite direction, heading towards trouble.

Yes, some things were the same as ever.

X-X

**A/N: Thanks for reading!** **Chapter four should be along in a few days. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I appreciate all the follows and favs so much, thank you! On we go!**

**Chapter 4**

No amount of asking, wheedling, or threatening could budge the stoic airport security official who was overseeing the terminal evacuation that Sherlock and John needed access to the scene of the incident right this moment. Even Mycroft's filched MoD badge did not change the rigid stance that no, the terminal needed to be locked down first and verified against further threat, and medical professionals needed room to clear out any survivors at the scene of the blast.

Blast. Bomb. The stolen credentials had at least persuaded the man to offer that much information to Sherlock. Detonated inside the terminal as a crowded flight disembarked at gate C17, ripped a hole in the exterior wall, damaging the jet bridge, trapping crew on the aircraft, though they were reportedly uninjured. Initial deductions made it out to be a small device, enough to fit in a carry-on sized suitcase or backpack and likely left unnoticed underneath a seat in the waiting area at the gate.

John couldn't help but feel that this sort of thing didn't happen in England, but that was obviously proven untrue. Terrorists bombed buses and the Underground, and Moriarty blew up little old ladies wired to explosives in an apartment building. But airports and airplanes, it seemed the morbid providence of America. Just as roadside IEDs belonged to those endless months of Afghanistan that were threatening to invade his psyche and made him a little grateful towards the thankless official who was just doing his job and provoking Sherlock's wrath in the process.

In a whirl of his coat, Sherlock spun away from the "useless" man and stalked back towards John across the emptying area in front of the makeshift barricades being erected. He held his mobile in his hand and started to tap at the screen before biting back a curse and shoving it back in his pocket. It was the third time John had seen him go through this exercise, and he finally snapped.

"Just make the call, then."

"Who? Call who?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock hissed in frustration. "Oh, right- that would require telling him what in the _bloody hell_ we're doing here in the first place." There was a time he might have assumed that being somewhere at the time of an explosion was unfortunate coincidence. That time was before he met Sherlock Holmes.

X-X

_A knock on the door startled a weary John and anxious Mary from their movie, curled up on the couch. Unsure if he expected it to be- or wanted it to be- Sherlock, John sighed and went to open it. A familiar face but one he had not seen in some time greeted him, and he stepped back in surprise, motioning the visitor in. _

"_Greg! Hello." _

_DI Lestrade nodded, his business face on as he peered around the living area, inclining his head again towards Mary. "John, I hate to bother you today of all days," he shuffled his feet and glanced down, missing John's frown of confusion, "having a quiet night in though, good, good…"_

"_Greg?"_

"_Look, I was wondering if you could come down to the surgery. A couple things don't look quite right but… well, I want your input before we start calling this, ah… arson."_

"Arson_?"_

"_Yeah- look, I just want to see if we're missing something totally innocent, I'd hate to see your name come up in the press over this."_

_John smiled lightly. "_My_ name? What motivation would I have for-?"_

"_No," Lestrade held up his hands, "I'm not saying that, it's just with the timing, someone will get cute and try to make it a thing."_

_The timing? The timing of wh- Oh. Sherlock's death. _

_Shit. Goddamn that man. Had he really not revealed his secret to Lestrade yet? And where was he, anyway? Was this to be his new routine, just waltzing in to John Watson's life every couple of days and then disappearing again, no number, no address, no means to contact him._

'_You didn't ask for one,' a nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him. He shushed that voice harshly, and forced a smile for Lestrade. "Yeah, alright. Mary?" he turned. _

"_I'll come along, if that's okay." _

_Ten minutes later, they were heading through light London traffic. It was late, people were home from work, had finished dinner. The streets were uneventful. It was only five miles or so to the surgery; they were only a few blocks away when Lestrade's mobile rang. _

"_Yeah? What do you- yeah- mmhm- yeah. No, stand down, we'll go 'round the back. Shit," he swore as he hung up the phone. "Someone's beat us to it. Anderson is going to have a field down if his crime scene has been tampered with."_

"_What, you don't think…?"_

_Lestrade shrugged. "Could be a run-of-the-mill break in. Could be someone _did_ set the clinic on fire and came back to hide evidence. Or to finish the job." _

_John had a sneaking suspicion that it was neither, and that he knew exactly who was already snooping around the place; a suspicion that became all the more likely when his mobile rang, shrilly piercing the silence of the unmarked car as they approached the block, watching with bated breath. He and Mary both jumped, Lestrade swore under his breath. The number was blocked. John cringed and answered. _

"_Hello?" _

"_John." _Goddamn. _"Listen to me very carefully. You and Mary aren't safe."_

"_No, really?"_

"_I'm at your surgery, the fire was no accident."_

"_No," John repeated. "_Really?_" _

"_It was a warning, they must have somehow been listening at the café where Mary and I talked."_

"_Right, of course. Wait," John shot a look at Mary, "when did you…?" _

_Sherlock cut him off. "It's not important. Look, phone Mycroft and tell him to send a car, at once, double the protections."_

"_We're with Lestrade right now, we're a block from the building." _

_There was silence on the line, punctuated by Lestrade's impatient demand to know what was going on and to whom John was speaking. He held up a hand, trying to make sense of his formerly-dead best friend. "Hello?" _

"_Get out of here. Get out now."_

"_But what about y-"_

_His question was cut off by the squeal of tires, a horrible moment of frozen suspense, and then the jolt of the impact as the car they were in was plowed into from behind. He was vaguely cognizant of the vehicle spinning out of control, the blur of the airbag exploding in his face, Mary's frightened cry, and he hoped she was okay, that she was fastened in her seat properly. They landed roughly on the curb, the three of them gasping to catch their breath against the force of their seat belts, smoke and fumes choking him despite his efforts. _

"_C'mon," Lestrade coughed out. "Get out of the car." He groped for the police radio. "Donovan? Yeah. No, we're… Mary?... no, we're fine. Get after the asshole." _

"_John?"_

"_Sherlock," he muttered, scrabbling around for his phone, found it underneath his seat, and practically fell out of the car, "what have you done?" But the line had gone dead. He swore loudly, then turned at the sound of Mary's shriek. _

_Any blood left in his face drained instantly. A man clad neck-to-toe in black had emerged from the shadows of one of the buildings abutting the clinic; and while Lestrade fumbled with the radio and John with his mobile, he'd pulled Mary from the car. Gun in hand. Pointed straight at her temple. _

_Another car tore around the corner; he flinched, but Sergeant Donovan was out of the door before it even came to a complete stop, using her door for cover and pointing it at the man holding Mary hostage. '_Put it away, for God's sake," _John wanted to shout, but the fear in Mary's eyes was keeping his throat constricted. Raw terror, a sort he had not felt since… since… Afghanistan? _

_Saint Bart's? _

X-X

Mycroft Holmes held his head in one hand, elbow resting on the table, fighting the headache that was coming on. "Yes, ground _everything_," he snapped at the unhappy NATS director on the conference call that was establishing just how hectic his next several days would be dealing with trapped travelers. "Nothing in or out of Heathrow, Gatwick, or City, divert any essential flights to Luton or Stansted."

His mobile buzzed. With a sigh of irritation, he picked it up and then raised a curious brow. Sherlock was not only contacting him, but _calling_ him? A shame that he had the worst timing imaginable.

But only seconds after the phone rang out, he received a brief text.

_Answer. –SH_

_Busy, do watch the news. –M_

_I'm here, PICK UP._ _–SH_

Mycroft frowned down at his mobile, before returning his attention to the Home Secretary on the conference call. But sensing his confusion even from miles away, Sherlock quickly clarified.

_At Heathrow. Need access._

Cursing, Mycroft acquiesced and called Sherlock. "Apologies, Madam Secretary," his finger hovered over the button to mute his end of the conversation, "I need to sign off a moment." Without waiting for a response, he brought the mobile to his ear. "What _are_ you doing?"

"Mycroft, do you trust me?"

"No."

Sherlock actually sounded a little hurt, though without seeing his face, it was impossible for his brother to discern whether it was affected or genuine. "Why not?"

A number of spiteful answers rose to the tip of his tongue, but none of them would have been close to true so he settled on the real reason. "Because you allowed me to think you dead for three years when I could have been your greatest asset, had you trusted _me_ in turn."

Sherlock was quiet for a long moment. "I'll give you everything," he said at last.

"What do you mean?" He was instantly suspicious.

"Do this for me and I'll answer any question about those three years. And I'll give you the records I've saved all this time. Notes, itineraries, insurance, blackmail…"

"Where are they?"

"_After_," Sherlock stressed. "Mycroft, I… please."

X-X

_The man- military bearing, all straight lines and grim emotion- practically dragged Mary backwards with him, daring Lestrade or Donovan to move closer with their weapons pointed at him. John felt useless, his gun forgotten at home, his fiancée five pounds of pressure away from instantaneous death. _

"_Drop the weapon, now!" Donovan shouted. _

_Any response was drowned out by the crack of gunfire, the shattering of glass. It spoke to the professionalism of all three armed opponents that none of them fired reflexively at the sound from the far end of the street, where the dark SUV that had pummeled the car had stopped. In fact, a broad, cruel grin spread across the face of the man holding Mary, and he shifted his position slightly to peer up the dark street. _

"_Come out to play at last, have you, Holmes?" _

'Oh, Sherlock,' _John wanted to groan. '_What have you done_?' He saw the confused glances exchanged between Lestrade and Donovan, their aim tracking the armed man flawlessly nevertheless. _

"_Did you ever dream I could be so patient?" he called into the darkness. "Waiting for you to step back into his life, waiting and watching as he mourned you, as he wallowed in misery for months… as he moved on with the help of this hot little piece…" _

"_Don't be disrespectful," the smooth, familiar, dulcet tones finally answered back. "Let her go. It's me you're after, is it not, Moran?" _

_Stepping into the light of a streetlamp, he was a vision from another world. Eyes raging with a fire John had never seen, blood staining his shirt and hands. His blood? No, the blood of the SUV driver who… _

_Christ, who Sherlock must have shot just now, through the bloody windshield. Not quite in cold blood, but not exactly in defense, either. The gun was still dangling from Sherlock's grip. _His_ gun, John realized in shock. Old tricks._

"_You didn't forget your deal with Moriarty already, Holmes," the man- Moran- taunted. _Deal?

"_Moriarty is dead; let's you and I make our own deal." The consulting detective drew astride John, met the cool, calculating gaze of Sally Donovan, the wild and confused one of Lestrade in turn, before turning back to Moran. "You let the detective inspector and the sergeant leave with Mary and John." He held up the L9A1 Browning by the barrel, the barrel that had to still be hot even through Sherlock's leather gloves. "You may do as you like with me. I'm already dead, what crime could you commit?"_

_Moran smiled cruelly. "Moriarty was a man of his word; so am I. By rights, the doctor, the detective inspector, and that little old shrew ought to have died three years ago. You're to be congratulated in preserving them this long; a shame you still chose yourself over them. All you had to do to ensure their safety was die, Sherlock. Why couldn't you just die?"_

"_Would you like the satisfaction? You know this," he nodded towards Mary, "gets you nowhere but in the ground with her. You let her go and I will gladly take her place." _

_John shot him a horrified glance, but his eyes were trained on Moran… _

_No. They were trained on Mary. And she was staring straight back at him; not at the gun he still held aloft for Moran to take, but at Sherlock's face. What did she read there? His fury? Her death? Untold horrors of blood and vengeance that had wrought the man before her into a hardened killer in the last three years? _

_And then she nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her gaze shifted once to John, fleetingly, and then back at Sherlock. _

X-X

When John returned from a cringe-worthy phone call from a confused and concerned Mary, Sherlock was again speaking with the security officer, both men looking far calmer than during their last altercation.

"What's going on?" John queried.

"Home Secretary called," Sherlock smiled, his expression just shy of smug.

"Oh. Right."

"They're setting up a room for us. Best she could do until they deem the scene 'safe.' Dull."

Ten minutes later found them sitting at a computer looking at security cam footage leading up to the detonation; the cameras themselves were destroyed or damaged in the area, but they had copies up to moments prior recorded from the central security office. Sherlock watched each angle once, periodically freezing the frame and looking closely at something, John couldn't tell what.

Finally, he spoke up. "There's a blind spot." The officer in the room with them looked up curiously. "Here," he pointed at a corner of one of the videos. "None of the cameras reach into this alcove."

The officer glanced at the screen, and then left to go confer with his superiors. Meanwhile, Sherlock moved on from the security cams and began sifting through the photographs of the scene that were still being uploaded a few at a time onto the server. John's breath hitched- it was horrific. Dozens of bodies littered the terminal, several had undoubtedly been blown out onto the tarmac and it was impossible to tell from the images whether they were all dead. Of course, some of them obviously were. Too many of them.

Sherlock had gone very still as he looked them over, unmoving save the click of his finger as he scrolled through the images, and his eyes that scanned for details with impossibly fast precision. And John wouldn't have sworn to it, but he thought Sherlock actually started when the security officer returned a few minutes later.

"It's being uploaded now, the missing camera," he told Sherlock. "Something caught their eye, they wanted to run it by Home Office first, see if it meant anything to them."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock's jaw tensed. "Then wouldn't that have been _exactly_ the frame of interest for…" he trailed away as he pulled up the missing file.

John peered over his shoulder and stiffened. "Sherlock…"

A young man stood directly underneath the cam, eyes shifting about uneasily, if not quite nervously. He held a sign facing the camera that had just one word written on it in bold block letters.

**BLUEBELL**_**. **_

"What in the hell…? Jesus, are we being haunted by a dead glow-in-the-dark rabbit?"

The uniformed man cleared his throat. "They couldn't make anything of it but it seemed curious, at the very least- do you think he's the bomber then?"

"No," Sherlock murmured. "No, he's dead, almost certainly. Paid handsomely to do a strange sort of hoax but one he saw no real harm in." He stood slowly, raising his eyes from the screen and staring across the room blankly, thinking. "No, this was a message."

"For who?"

The detective was already on his way out the door. "Me."

X-X

"_Go on, Moran," Sherlock urged quietly. "I am the better prize, I have brought total destruction on your people. Sebastian Moran, the man who finally took down Sherlock Holmes. Took the revenge of the dozen killed by a ghost in the night. Delacruz, in Shanghai; Simonson in Saint Petersburg; Müller in Vienna; Nadia Berrini in Isfahan…" _

_A flash of raw emotion went through Moran's eyes, and John closed his eyes, close to retching in fear, wanting to curse Sherlock for playing with Mary's life like this… _

_The ire died down, and Moran's cruel smile returned. "Nadia," he sighed. "I have dreamed of the things I might do to her killer. Yes," he murmured. "Yes. You shall be my prize, Sherlock Holmes. Let Doctor Watson keep the girl. Let your landlady and the detective live; they are nothing to me now, when I might have Nadia's murderer instead."_

_Moran pulled Mary with him, closing the distance between Sherlock and John, Sherlock still holding out the Browning. John couldn't speak, couldn't form a word as the horrible deal was made before him, looked in desperation to his fiancée…_

_Who was pulling her hand out of her pocket, eyes wild but steeled in determination. And when they were twenty feet away, Sherlock smiled. "Mary." _

_She brought her arm up and depressed a button on the small canister in her hand- the pepper spray John had insisted she carry- spraying it in Moran's face and hers along with it. Simultaneously, she went limp, crumbling to the ground as Moran growled and released her, clawing at his burning eyes. Sherlock turned the proffered gun sideways, grip pointing not towards Moran anymore, but towards John. _

_He did not hesitate, took the weapon with a sure hand. The crack of two shots rang out, right atop one another. In his blind agony, Moran had fired wildly, no longer intent on Mary but Sherlock. _

_With an 'oomph,' Sherlock spun and hit the ground; Moran, struck dead center on his chest, flew backwards and was still. Lestrade and Donovan rushed forward to check his stats, but John flew to Sherlock. _

_The bullet had clipped his right arm. "Through and through," John sighed. "Practically a graze." He helped Sherlock turn over onto his back, his teeth gritting in pain but looking by and large more irritated than anything else. "There's a lot of blood, but he missed the artery."_

_Sirens began to fill the air, cutting through the sudden silence. John turned, saw Donovan helping Mary up, tears streaming down her face after the effects of the spray. She would be alright though. Sherlock winced once as John applied heavy pressure to the profusely bleeding wound, but then he smiled serenely, pain washing away from his face with the sudden shift of expression. _

"_It's done now, John. I've won. I won the game, at last."_

X-X

With the weight of the Home Secretary behind him and the scene deemed safe, the survivors removed and en route to hospital, Sherlock successfully demanded access that time. John traipsed after him, feeling relatively useless, but watched curiously as the detective marched through the wreckage to a very specific spot and then turned in circles, taking in the full devastation from there. After the details were suitably catalogued in his mind- though what in particular he gleaned from the suitcases flung open, contents spilled about and bloodied, signs torn down from the ceiling, baby buggies thrown sideways and chairs torn up from the floor and littered about the terminal, John no clue- he marched up to the security chief who seemed to be in charge and who would undoubtedly be obliged to resign his position once the current crisis was ended.

"Where are the bodies?"

John turned to look at him incredulously. "What?" Teams were busy photographing the casualties killed in the blast, each one then removed and carried off to some other location. Awaiting transport to a morgue, presumably.

"I need to see something."

It was gruesome, rivaling even the worst John had ever seen in Afghanistan. Some two dozen, maybe thirty bodies laid out on sheets on the lower level near the door where normally ground crew would go in and out to direct planes, load and unload baggage.

Sherlock stood and looked up and down the rows of corpses- men and women of every age and race, two very small bodies John couldn't bear to look at as they reminded him a bit too much of Daniel- and then Sherlock purposefully went around to investigate something that caught his eye. John assumed it would be the young man they'd seen on the security vid, but he was wrong.

A middle-aged woman, Indian or Pakistani at a guess, blunt trauma to the head and chest, had likely died almost instantly. John knelt by her side, trying to figure what had drawn Sherlock to this particular casualty amidst all the others. "Who is she?"

"Aditi Prakesh." John turned and blinked; that wasn't exactly the detail he was looking for in Sherlock's response; had he known her? But Sherlock held up a passport- Indian issued. "Traveled from Los Angeles today." If that information was supposed to mean anything to John, it went right over his head. Sherlock slid the passport back into the bag that held the other effects removed from the dead woman's pockets. It was labeled with a number that corresponded to a tag around her right wrist.

Drawing in a deep breath, the detective stood and glanced around once more at the bodies on the ground, at the security chief observing them from across the room. "Come on, John. We're leaving."

"We- oh. Already?" All that effort to get here and he spent all of five minutes looking around. "Where are we going?"

"To find our bomber, of course."

X-X

**A/N: Thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying! Should have chapter 5 by the weekend!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Many thanks for the reviews, favs, and follows. You all make me smile and encourage me to type away. **

**Chapter 5**

"Quickly, John."

"Sherlock, how exactly do you propose we leave? We can hardly grab a cab, the whole place is on lockdown."

"Home Secretary owed me another favor."

That favor, come to find out, was a car with government plates waiting for them just outside the terminal. A man in a sharp suit stepped out of the driver's and held the door as the pair approached. "Sir," he nodded. Sherlock gestured John towards the passenger side and slid in behind the wheel, nodding his thanks towards the driver. "At the end of the lane, follow the private security route, they've been instructed to wave you through to the A4."

When they were well underway and John stopped feeling as though they were about to be stopped at every turn and hauled back to the terminal in cuffs, he eyed his companion carefully. Sherlock's expression was unreadable, but the tightness with which his white knuckles gripped the wheel betrayed his anxiety- and an anxious Sherlock was never a good sign, for anything. Usually, this here, solving crimes, this was his literal anti-drug.

Whatever plan Sherlock had devised for the day, whatever he had needed John presence for, had gone terribly wrong. People were dead. And it was personal.

X-X

Mycroft Holmes was not the sort to become visibly irate; red in the face, shouting, those were the marks of a lowlier man who could not contain his temper, could not direct his anger into useful endeavors. Mycroft Holmes was not the sort to shout, but he came dangerously close as the Heathrow chief of security relayed to him the encounter with the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes.

The only thing that stopped him was knowing that the imbecilic man had acted with the blessing of the Home Secretary who at least publicly outranked the minor government official standing before him, but who privately, Mycroft was going to have to demand just what she was thinking in granting such an idiotic favor and what could Sherlock have possibly done that she owed it to him anyway?

By all accounts, he'd only missed him by a matter of minutes, but he wasn't naïve enough to think he could stop Sherlock and John before they left the premises; his brother was too smart and wily for that. Instead, he'd have to direct his energies towards locating them at one of their usual haunts back in the city, and that would take time- Sherlock would undoubtedly leave the car somewhere and proceed via alternate transport to make the process even more difficult.

Sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose, he stared dully at the computer where he was given a rundown of what Sherlock had viewed and what had interested him from the young and vaguely nervous officer who had remained in the room with him. It took only moments for him to associate the ridiculous message of 'BLUEBELL' with Sherlock's old website, which proved nothing at all beyond that someone had once glimpsed the page. He toyed with the idea there was some connection between today's incident and Sherlock's foolhardy investigation at Baskerville in which he had inadvertently stumbled across the scientist responsible for said Bluebell, but dismissed it as highly unlikely. Whatever the message, Sherlock clearly had some other association for the word than a little girl's missing rabbit that glowed in the dark.

"And you say he looked at just one of the bodies?"

"Yes, sir," the chief stepped in brusquely. He pulled up the files of images taken at the scene and opened a folder labeled '16.' The woman had been photographed before being moved, with closer shots of her injuries and items removed from her person and secured in a bag with a '16' drawn boldly across the top.

There was nothing extraordinary about her, far as he could tell. But he'd never possessed the same eye for detail as his little brother- close, but not enough at times. What had Sherlock seen in these images of one Aditi Prakesh to warrant a closer look? Mycroft did not know, but he downloaded the relevant files onto a memory stick and went to have a closer look.

He approached the scene with clinical precision, sparing little attention for the other unfortunate souls in the room. At the risk of being crass, they were beyond his help and stopping to even pretend to care would be a supreme waste of his time.

"Did he give any indication that he knew her?" he queried the security chief.

The older man shook his head and shrugged. "Beyond that she was the only one who interested him? No. He was hardly talkative though."

Of course. Sherlock in working mode, where he did not eat, sleep, or speak unless they served a useful purpose. This though was really beyond the limits of unacceptable. An act of terrorism on British soil, one which Sherlock at least believed somehow involved him, and he not only was neglecting to discuss any insights with authorities on the scene, but he had also broken his word to his brother. Perhaps that should have been more predictable, in retrospect.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He opened the text and, in spite of himself, a wry smile threatened him at his brother's impeccable timing.

_Have to do this first. You'll understand later. –SH _

As he knelt to pick up the bag and look at the woman's passport, another text came through.

_I think. –SH_

X-X

_The anxiety in Mycroft Holmes should have been undetectable to the outside observer, but John's heightened awareness born of fear and adrenaline, saw the unusual tightness in his eyes, the stiffness in his gait. "Where is he?"_

"_Yelling at the doctor still, I imagine," John returned evenly. "He's fine."_

"_I was told he was shot." _

"_Didn't hit anything, just needs cleaned and closed." John cleared his throat and tightened his arm wrapped around Mary's waist. "Mary, this is Sherlock's brother, Mycroft." _

_The banality of it- the pleasantries, amidst a chaotic night- must have grated against the elder Holmes' nerves. But he forced a smile and offered his hand. "Ah; of course. Ms. Morstan. Pleasure." He took in her red-rimmed eyes, swollen face. "You are injured?" _

"_Took my own pepper spray in the face," she said. "I'm alright." Hesitating, she smiled tentatively at the older man. "Sherlock saved my life."_

"_Yes, I've had a brief word with Lestrade. Not just yours, I understand," his gaze drifted back over John, sizing him up and down. "A deal with Moriarty was mentioned." _

_The question was in his words, if not his tone, and John held up his hands to deflect it. "I don't know."_

"_You can infer." _

"_I-"_

"_Moran," another voice drawled out, and they all looked to see Sherlock moving slowly down the corridor to them, a heavy bandage wrapped around his right arm, surgical tape over a gash above his eye where he'd hit the ground, "has been watching you, John. For three years. He knew I wasn't dead as soon as his associates around the globe started dying." _

"_And you knew this?" _

"_I suspected as much. Working in London was dangerous for me, I could not afford to devote the time necessary to tracking him down. But he was of Moriarty's ilk, it wouldn't be enough to kill you on suspicion- he would wait, bide his time until I returned… and make me watch. As Moriarty intended, if I failed to kill myself three years ago."_

_Mycroft's brows rose, his look turning shrewd with a hint of surprise. John frowned, but Mary understood what Mycroft had realized. "You used him. You used John to lure Moran out." _

"_Oh, I used you, too," Sherlock assured her. "Surely you do not believe the fire at the surgery was a coincidence, given our conversation just prior." Her lips pursed together; she'd made the connection some time ago. Sherlock turned back to John. "I do apologize, for placing you both in harm's way. I'd hoped to deal with matters with you none the wiser, but Moran was crafty, and Lestrade faster than I anticipated. It's done now though, so I shall… leave you in peace."_

_It took John several seconds to catch his meaning. "Wait, you- you're leaving again?"_

"_I think four days of uprooting the comforts of your daily routine are as much as I can rightfully impart upon you."_

"_But you… you're alive!"_

"_And you're getting married."_

_Mary couldn't help but laugh. "Those needn't be mutually exclusive realities."_

_The consulting detective's gaze shifted smoothly between the three of them, a confused John and Mary, a quiet and calculating Mycroft, before he turned and gazed down the hall towards the waiting area of the hospital, where families were sitting and waiting for news of their loved ones. Two small children chased after one another, before a woman- mother, caretaker of some sort- grabbed them by the arms and led them back to the chairs. _

"_I need to take care of something; leave London one last time." His tone gave the implicit impression that he would not answer any questions as to what that something was. "I expect to be gone a month, maybe two."_

"_Well, make sure you're back in three." Sherlock frowned at John. "You have a wedding to attend. And I need a best man." _

_A tentative smile quirked Sherlock's mouth, and he nodded once. "It is a deal, Doctor Watson. Brother," he exclaimed, rounding on Mycroft, "perhaps you can see to restoring my existence in the meantime?"_

X-X

He almost missed it. One little detail, as he replaced the dead woman's passport in the bag with keys, her boarding pass, some loose change. Something nagging at the back of his mind, until he glanced through the photographs uploaded onto his assistant's PDA. "There's something missing."

"Hm?" the security chief frowned and looked upside down over the top of the screen.

"Did my brother go through her things?"

"Looked at her passport, same as you."

Mycroft scowled and brought the device closer to his face, trying to make out the details. "He took something," he murmured. "Here," he pointed. "Ticket of some sort?" Not an airline ticket, the sort one might receive from the box office of a museum, a theatre, a music hall… He magnified the image on the small screen.

**Wiener Philharmoniker**

It did not answer any questions; only raised more of them. Why did a woman with an Indian passport traveling from Los Angeles carry a ticket from a world-renowned Vienna symphony in her pocket? Her passport had never been stamped in Vienna, but that did not necessarily mean she hadn't been, or did not plan to go. It had caught Sherlock's eye- why had he taken it?

It answered nothing, but it was a start.

"I want to know everything about this woman, anything at all. Get someone to sharpen up this image," he nodded at the blurry magnified picture of the ticket. The smaller details were illegible. "Get forensics in here to look at her body, pull up anything you can find on her life history," Mycroft informed his assistant quietly. "Top priority."

X-X

_John wasn't sure whether he would see Sherlock again after that night, offered nothing but an unhelpful shrug to a frustrated Lestrade who was trying to figure out how to go about handling a case centered around a legally dead man; he just took Mary home, made them a strong pot of tea, and went about life as he had until Friday when the unexpected visitor had turned up in his office._

_But turn up again he did, some seven weeks later, and what a world of difference those seven weeks made. The darkness was gone from his eyes, from his bearing and he was… the old Sherlock again. Brash, abrasive, impulsive, bored- took great delight in the wide-eyed horror on Anderson's face when he passed by and saw Sherlock sitting in Lestrade's office._

_Though he adamantly refused to speak of his time away, despite endless entreaties from Mycroft. John could hardly blame him, those three years had clearly been a dark period. If nothing else, they'd taught the detective how to kill without reservation, a strange concept for the doctor to reconcile from the awkward man. Even the memory of the night outside his surgery was dreamlike, two months on._

_A week before their wedding, he asked Mary, curled up on the sofa together drinking wine, "D'you think he's alright? Sherlock?" _

"_I haven't been psychoanalyzing him, if that's what you're asking."_

"_No!" he protested, but his ensuing silence was a tad guilty. "Well, maybe a little."_

_She sighed. "For what little it's worth- I think he's fine. I think he's buried some things deep, and that may well prove a vulnerability for him later in life. The weight of a man's secrets can overwhelm him, given time enough to fester." _

"_Eliot?" he guessed. _

_She winked. "Morstan." _

_As he lay awake that night, John was unconcerned. Sherlock lived in the moment, it's why he got so bored, what made him impulsive and reckless. He moved on- all of them did. Not quite the same as things were before, but not all too different either. Less running around after criminals and more legitimate work at the surgery but… things felt normal again. Almost._

_X-X_

Traffic was growing heavier as they approached central London once more. Sherlock's impatience was becoming obvious, little huffs of exasperation every time he was obliged to brake. "Where are we going?" John didn't know if talking would serve to distract him or simply annoy him, and had thus far remained largely silent.

"Strand." Sherlock glanced over at his confused expression. "We'll leave the car there, take a taxi the rest of the way."

"Rest of the way…?"

"I need to retrieve some things. Files, copies I've hidden in a safe place. Too risky to go for the originals right now."

John took a deep breath. "Are you going to tell me what's going on? Why are we running from Mycroft?"

"Because he's Mycroft," Sherlock answered in a painfully obvious tone of voice.

The next question was harder to get out, and he didn't want to sound accusatory but… "You said they left you a message. _You_."

"Yes."

"Does that mean the whole thing was meant to get at you?"

"I know what blood is on my hands," Sherlock snapped, "you needn't remind me of it."

"You didn't bomb the terminal, Sherlock."

But the detective had lapsed into a sullen, contemplative silence. It was ten minutes before he pulled into a multi-storey car park a couple of blocks off the main thoroughfare. A Friday afternoon, it was already emptying as people left early for the weekend. John made to get out of the loaned car, but a hand on his arm stopped him, surprised him.

"I never answered your question."

The number of questions John had asked that day which had gone unanswered could likely fill a phonebook. Sherlock clarified though without further prompting.

"Yes, I made it on time. I saved her. Saved her, and fabricated every last detail to convince Mycroft and the CIA she was dead."

And then he was gone, sweeping towards the nearest stairwell to take him down the street where they could hail a cab. John stared wordlessly for a moment before he scrambled off after him.

X-X

Midway back to the city, Mycroft had to hand it to the Home Secretary as he opened the sound file she had sent him- her cunning in fulfilling her favor obligation while bypassing his wrath was impressive. Apparently her past dealings with Sherlock had clued her in to his unusual, tiring methods.

But when he reached the end of the recording pulled from the vehicle delivered to Sherlock and John and recently abandoned in the Strand, the dry smile had been thoroughly wiped from his face.

X-X

"_I had a feeling I'd be seeing you." _

_Irene Adler. Coiffed as ever, dressed in a mixed style somewhere between the local tradition and western garb, she was nevertheless as recognizable as the day he'd last seen her in Islamabad, after their daring escape together from Karachi. _

"_Can't believe everything you read in the papers." _

_An internal wince threatened him, but he remained outwardly stoic. Moriarty had said something far too similar on the Saint Bart's rooftop. "Be that as it may, I have certain appearances- or lack thereof- to maintain." _

"_Is the great Sherlock Holmes seeking my help?" _

_His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Help? Not necessarily. A place to lie low for a few days, however, if I might be allowed to impose."_

"_I'll see if I can make the space for you." _

_He raised a quizzical brow and glanced upward at her impressive estate. Here in Mumbai, she maintained an identity, that of the somewhat estranged wife of an American filmmaker who traveled between India and his Hollywood residence. Sherlock supposed that she also owned the place in California to keep up the façade, but had not had cause to look into it. Yet. Briefly, he wondered how she had come about the money, decided he did not care to know, and dropped the line of thought altogether. _

_X-X_

_He did not speak for two days after he settled in, simply brooded in dark and heavy silence. Nor had she seen him eat, save for a biscuit the time he had deigned to take tea with her. On the third day, she took a sizeable breakfast on a tray to the guest suite, where she found him asleep on the sofa, bed seemingly untouched. Setting the tray down on the coffee table, she took up a chair opposite and watched him until he stirred five minutes later. _

"_Spying on sleeping guests hardly suits you, Ms. Adler," Sherlock rolled over and sat up, pulling the thick blanket tightly around his bare chest, despite the temperate air. _

"_I brought you breakfast."_

"_I'm not…" he trailed off and scoffed lightly. True or not, the reaction had been automatic, unintentionally evoking memories of their acquaintance in London the year prior. _

_She nudged the tray towards him. "Yes, you are. Eat."_

_And he did, though she ended up sharing it with him and eating at least half. His brooding silence resumed, and she allowed him the meal to collect his thoughts, but remained sitting there staring after they'd both finished. "So am I really just a favor to be cashed in, or are you going to tell me what happened?"_

"_You read the papers."_

"_Which say that the once great detective Sherlock Holmes was a fraud who, upon discovery of his dark secret, leapt to his death from atop Saint Bartholomew's in London. Obviously, they got a few of the key facts mixed up." _

"_That's not all they said, and you know how to read between the lines."_

_It was all he said on the matter that morning. After another few minutes of stoic silence, he excused himself to shower and dress, and she retreated from the guest suite._

_X-X_

**A/N: Thanks for reading, hope you're still enjoying!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Wasn't expecting this one until tomorrow but I'm just having too much fun writing this story and getting it out of my mind palace (mind shed, more like). It's just clamoring to escape and who am I to refuse? Your reviews delight me and inspire me, and I am so glad to see people enjoying this story. Hope it continues to please!**

**Chapter 6**

John Watson didn't know where he expected the taxi to drop them off, where he expected Sherlock Holmes would stash secretive documents away from his brother's prying eyes and ears. Anything from a shady hiding place secured by one of his loyal homeless friends to a safety deposit vault at a high end bank on the Mall. But as the taxi dropped them off on a quiet street corner in a modest residential section of the borough of Camden, he supposed he shouldn't have dared imagine Sherlock to do anything remotely predictable. He did wonder though why Sherlock even needed physical records of anything, when he had his hard drive.

As ever, his thoughts may as well have been displayed on his forehead for Sherlock to read. "I had to delete most of the information after its initial usefulness was at an end. Remembering much of it could have proven a severe liability, in certain circumstances." Sherlock's matter-of-fact tone suggested that he found this nowhere near as morbid as did John. "I copied everything upon returning to London; though three years on, I'd rather hoped never to be in need of it."

"And in what undetectable secret hideout have you stashed them here in," he glanced around- kids home from school were playing across the street, an elderly man walking a tiny dog smiled as he passed, "an incredibly average neighborhood in Camden?"

Sherlock smiled grimly. "One place neither Mycroft nor Moriarty ever dreamed of looking."

"What is it that we're looking for?" Withdrawing a slip of paper from his pocket, Sherlock handed it over to John as they crossed a street and continued down the next block. "It's a ticket- I don't read German."

"Wien- Vienna. Vienna Philharmonic."

"Oh. Right- have you been?"

"Yes."

"Were they good?"

"Don't know," Sherlock murmured, starting up the walk towards an older building, "I was busy observing a man I planned on killing."

That should have been fairly obvious, after the fact. The follow up question hung awkwardly in the air between them, until John cleared his throat and muttered, "And, ah… did you? Kill him?"

"Well," Sherlock tapped in the keycode to open the front door of the building, then stepped aside and allowed John to precede him, "I thought I had. But then who is leaving five year old symphony tickets at the scene of airport bombings?"

A good question. "Wha- hang on. Where did you find this?" They crossed a plain lobby and headed up a narrow stairwell, Sherlock taking them two at a time.

"The dead woman's belongings, do keep up."

They walked down the hallway on the third landing, stopping halfway down at the door of flat 308. "Are we just going to break into somebody's flat?"

"It's hardly breaking in," Sherlock produced a key ring from his pockets and sorted out the proper one. He opened the latch with a click and ushered John quickly inside. "More an unannounced arrival."

A small living space to their right, kitchen and dining area to the left, it was a cozy set up that looked well-lived in. Well, cozy except for one glaring quality that rendered the whole thing a bit of an eyesore. "It's, ah- very _pink_."

"Only be a moment." Sherlock was disappearing into what had to be the solitary bedroom; from the brief glimpse of it John got before the door swung partially closed again, it looked every bit as pink as the living room that was adorned with pink pictures on the walls and pink pillows and throws on the sofa- which was thankfully a rather dull beige.

John meandered around the counter to peer at some photographs hanging on the fridge- and coughed violently as, almost lost amidst a half dozen pictures of what seemed to be the same cat, he saw a very familiar and very unexpected pathologist. "Molly Hooper?" he demanded in a hiss. "We're in Molly Hooper's flat?"

He stopped short as he stepped into the bedroom. Sherlock was sitting on the floor beside a dresser and, having removed the top drawer, seemed to be carefully peeling something off that had been taped to the underside of the top of the chest. He looked at the drawer, looked at Sherlock as he successfully withdrew a file folder, and then couldn't help as the ridiculousness of the situation sent him into a fit of giggles. "The last place Mycroft or Moriarty would look- Molly Hooper's knicker drawer?" Sherlock stood and dusted himself off after carefully replacing the drawer in the dresser. "It'd break her heart to know you'd so much as seen her bedroom."

"Don't be dense, John, I have a key, she knows I've been."

"You trust her with that?"

The detective went unnaturally still a moment, regarding John before turning his attention to the folder in his hand. "She's been trusted with greater secrets," he murmured at last.

X-X

_He disappeared for a week; just left after lunch and didn't return, no warning, no means to be contacted provided. No indication whether or not he planned to return. Irene had her housekeeper clean up the guest suite, but bought just one small item to give it a personal touch if he came back._

_She wasn't sure if she wanted him to come back, to be quite frank. They were both dead in the eyes of the world, and any association between the two heightened both of their risk of being found out. But it was undeniable that she owed him, whatever he needed._

_As it happened, she woke up late on the eighth night after his disappearance and heard him making use of the gift she'd left in the guest suite. The melancholy tones of the violin drifted across the house, lulling her back to sleep and infiltrating her dozing consciousness. When she woke again four hours later, he was either playing again or had not yet stopped, and she traipsed across the house in her dressing gown and settled onto a plush armchair, unnoticed by him as he stared out the window while playing._

_A stack of newspapers sat on the end table. Catching up on the goings-on at home, she supposed, recognizing several major British journals. The one on the bottom of the stack caught her eye though; it was opened to a page where a familiar face, familiar despite the subject's obvious attempt to avoid the camera, was in the upper left section. _

The Doctor behind the Detective

_Of course, all of the papers and tabloids were vying for John Watson's side of the story. He seemed to be proving tight-lipped, however, looking harried and haggard in the photo caught of him outside New Scotland Yard._

"_What are you doing?" The playing ceased abruptly._

"_Just catching up on news back home." She grinned cheekily. "How long does Doctor Watson have to play the grieving widower before he just so happens to go on extended vacation to India?"_

_A dark look passed quickly through Sherlock's eyes and his brow furrowed… but then he resumed playing and did not answer her question._

X-X

_A month passed, during which he had two more extended absences lasting around a week each. Their interactions during the days he was present were as short and terse as before, and when he returned from the latest of the disappearances, she finally planted herself in the sitting area of his temporary accommodations and forced a conversation. _

"_A few days of lying low has turned into nearly six weeks. Off and on," she conceded. "I'm not objecting, mind, but a little warning of when you'll be coming and going would be appreciated." _

_He stared at her, unmoved, for a minute, before standing smoothly and setting down the violin at which he'd been plucking away before she started speaking. "I won't be imposing much longer," he informed her softly, turning to stare out the window at the back garden. "My… preparations… have taken longer than I initially anticipated, but there is work to be done."_

"_Moriarty?" He just raised his eyebrows in response. "Where are you going?" _

"_It is best that you know nothing else, I've already endangered you by coming here."_

"_Can you at least leave me a mobile number where I can reach you?"_

_He shook his head. "Too easily tracked."_

_A sting of guilt washed over her. "You don't think I'd…?"_

"_No," he cut her off quickly. "No. But when you're dead and your brother practically runs MI6, well- precautions must be taken."_

"_Your… I assumed dear Mycroft was helping you."_

_His lip twitched. "You assumed that and still let me stay? You're more foolish than I thought." The brief bout of amusement faded. "I am beyond Mycroft's assistance now."_

"_And John?" He continued to stare stonily. "Sherlock, they don't actually think you're dead?" _

"_It was... the only way."_

"_Oh, Sherlock," she breathed. Beginning to look distinctly uncomfortable with her concern- _sentiment_- he picked the violin back up, seized the bow from the coffee table, and began to play once more._

X-X

The phone call going on in the other room sounded very taut, very threatening, and very German. As he listened to Sherlock's sharp tones in a guttural language he did not understand, John idly wondered how many languages were stored in his mind palace and whether he had to stash any away to remember all the words of another.

It was a ridiculous line of thought, but still preferable to the alternative of mulling over the meaning of 'she's been trusted with greater secrets' and the impossible but inevitable place that was leading. Because if Sherlock Holmes, who had jumped off a rooftop and been declared dead needed a confidante, needed help of some sort… well, even his best friend had laughed at the preposterousness of trusting Molly Hooper with crucial information, what further proof did he need that she was, indeed, the least suspect possibility?

The expected sting of betrayal never came. He knew now that what Sherlock had done, he had done for him, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and that it had come at a great cost to the consulting detective. A cost that was still being exacted, apparently. The sting of betrayal never came, but there was a dull, aching sort of a sadness as he remembered those long weeks trying to come to terms with the inexplicable act. He'd seen Molly a few times, had seen her at his funeral. She'd cried.

"It could not be done without the help of someone in the morgue," Sherlock appeared suddenly by his side. "Molly was… the obvious choice."

Unbidden, a voice popped into his head.

_DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep. _

_And I bet you know the record-keeper? _

_I know what he likes._

"It's fine."

"Is it?"

John studied Sherlock's face a moment. "Yes, I think so." He looked honestly concerned about John's response to this revelation, a strange thing for the man who scoffed at sentiment to worry about, six years on. "So what have you learned?" The worried face dropped into a scowl. "A bit not good, I take it."

"_Quite_ not good. But come," he looped his scarf back around his neck, "time is a consideration. Let's walk and talk, as they say."

X-X

_When he showed up again, it was four months later, his arrival announced in the middle of the night by a clanging crash and accompanying swearing. Irene rose from bed and crept to the landing above the foyer, sighing and swearing softly under her breath as well when she saw who it was, slipping the small handgun back into the pocket of her dressing gown. "Welcome back," she said drily, not even fazed at the realization that he must have cut himself a key before he'd left. He was, after all, Sherlock Holmes. _

_He whirled, revealing the probable source of his clumsiness. His right arm was kept close to his body, held in a sloppy sling; at a glance, she guessed that it had not even been set professionally or even properly. "What happened to your arm?" _

"_I have injured it," he ground out between gritted teeth. "Obviously."_

"_I'll call my physician." _

"_It is three in the morning."_

_She shrugged. "He is paid handsomely for his availability. And his discretion."_

X-X

"Karl Müller, grandson of a Nazi officer convicted at Nuremberg, grew up in abject poverty, family name disgraced, had one thing go his way early in his life. He was a musical prodigy, the sort schools sought aggressively, and by which he found himself in Moscow at the age of seventeen studying the piano and the violin and a whole new world at his fingertips. He developed other passions- some of them academic, most of them not- and was dismissed from the conservatory before the completion of his third year. The full details of his misspent adolescence are fairly irrelevant to us today, save that his love and skill for music were never diminished throughout an impressively colorful criminal adulthood."

Even someone with an ordinary brain like John Watson couldn't fail to connect those pieces of the puzzle. "Even criminal mastermind's go to the symphony, I suppose."

"More savory than tracking them down in brothels. Though high society can get stuffy."

For the sake of his sanity, John was just going to assume that the brothel comparison was entirely hypothetical. "What'd he do then, this Karl Müller?"

"He's a despicable human being generally not worth the space he occupies on this planet," Sherlock informed him conversationally as they turned back down towards the main road where they might hail another cab. "Cold War Moscow, however, was a prime location for recruiting those with certain violent anarchist tendencies. Once outside their radical influence, he came to find that he wasn't so much ideologically-oriented as much as he just liked the feeling of control, of power. Five years ago, he was a key figure in an expansive and brutal European sex trade, dabbled in some drugs- that's what got me into his hotel room, if you must know- and he had a hand in the organization of a dozen other criminal enterprises in central Europe. Contacts among all the wrong people, a wealth of information about all the right ones; he could have made one phone call and had blackmail material on any major public figure in an hour."

A priceless resource for the likes of James Moriarty, then. "Terrorism?"

"Interestingly… no, not really. A strange honor code generally at odds with the concept of killing for the sake of killing."

"But… he just bombed an airport." Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "So what happened in the last five years?"

"You mean what happened five years _ago_," his friend corrected, a trace of bitterness in his voice. "It was very simple, really- elegant, in its own way. The hotel where he was staying for the performance in Vienna was a marvelous building, old and with a lot of history- and cheap owners who did not care to update the fixtures as regularly as needed doing. Apparently also did not care to pay the housekeeping staff enough to discourage them from taking bribes to disconnect the smoke and gas detectors in the three rooms surrounding his and the hallway outside."

John's brows shot up. "Not such an awful way to go, for a scum-of-the-earth sort, I suppose."

"It wouldn't have been, had I not made a major miscalculation. I did not know my error until the next day, when the news reported _two_ deaths as a result of the carbon monoxide leak that was blamed on poor proprietary practice." He took a deep breath and shot a pained look at John. "His teenage son was on holiday from his boarding school in Berlin. He took the train late that night to see his father. A young, innocent child. I killed him."

"But… if Müller wasn't dead…"

"As I've only just learned, he very nearly died before he was secretly whisked away in the dead of night by the _Bundesnachrichtendienst_." His mouth quirked wryly upwards at the blank look on John's face. "German foreign intelligence."

"Ah."

"I made their job easy. With the son dead, it was hardly difficult to convince the world that he was dead, too. There was no one to blackmail him to freedom because no one knew the Germans had him."

"Convenient, that." They reached the main road, keeping an eye out for a passing taxi looking for a fare. "Where are we off to now, then?"

"To speak with the criminal mastermind himself."

John blinked. "Um- in person, on the phone? Shall we Skype him, chat him up on Facebook? Does he have a Twitter handle? Do criminal masterminds _tweet_?"

"In person, I expect, I really won't know until we get there," Sherlock ignored his sarcastic incredulity, then paused and turned as a taxi slowly pulled up on the curb. "Unless, of course, you'd rather go home. I would understand."

There was something in his voice, his body language… almost like a part of Sherlock was hoping John would say yes, he would rather leave him to his own devices and just go home to his family like any other ordinary Friday. "Are we about to walk into a trap?"

"No."

"Right then." He climbed into the cab behind Sherlock who told the driver 'Earl's Court' as they sped off. "And did your German friend on the phone tell you where to find this guy?"

"No, he told me where he was, at Heathrow."

"Did he?"

Sherlock offered a humorless smile. "Bluebell, John. Bluebell."

He didn't understand, but before he could seek clarification, his phone buzzed. He withdrew it, surprised it had taken this long. "It's Mycroft."

"Delete it."

John ignored him, briefly wondered how many attempts at communication Sherlock had thus far ignored from his brother for Mycroft to be texting him, and then looked up in surprise after reading the short missive. "He wants to know how 'The Woman' is involved in today's events. How did he-?"

"Recording device, in the car. Oh come now, it was obvious, wasn't it?"

_Not to me_. "So when you told me that, you knew Mycroft would hear it. Why bother?" Sherlock shot him a look across the back seat of the cab and remained silent. "Sherlock, this feud between you is ridiculous- there are lives at stake and you're on the same side, for Christ's sake. Why won't you let him help you?"

Sherlock's lips pressed together into a thin line, and then he withdrew his mobile and looked pointedly at John before responding to his brother.

_You'll work it out in time. –SH_

_Say you tell me now and spare me the effort. –M_

_You'll try to stop what needs doing. –SH_

_Keep an eye on Mary and Daniel, would you? –SH_

_Are they in danger? –M_

_Likely not; those are not the rules of the game. –SH_

_But do it anyway. –SH_

**X-X**

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Until next time!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **A slightly shorter chapter here to lead us into the excitement that will be chapters 8-10. Hope the questions and suspense aren't getting too tedious for you here. ;-)

**Chapter 7**

The drive from Camden to Earl's Court took some twenty-five minutes, the near entirety of which Sherlock spent scribbling hastily on paper he'd procured from Molly's flat. At one point, John hesitantly asked what he was doing, not wanting to break his singular focus. Sherlock responded with a vague and distracted, "Notes, for Mycroft," and didn't even break pace with his writing. "Information was the price of getting access at the airport."

"But then why didn't you-?"

"John." Sherlock's hand finally stilled and he looked up sternly.

"Sorry."

And he was back to it. John looked blankly out the window. These short, northern November days and dusk was already upon them, making it feel later than it truly was. There was a time where this would have been a pure adrenaline rush but now, he was just exhausted. John Watson was getting old, domesticated. Which reminded him somewhat guiltily that he should text his wife with whom he had not spoken since Heathrow. Well, she was the one who had suggested he spend more time with the sleepless and energetic detective in the first place.

He was just done assuring her that he would be home tonight but no, could not say precisely when, when Sherlock looked up again from his notes. "I saw her a few times while I was, you know…

"Dead."

"Gone." John flushed as he spoke overtop Sherlock, but then reiterated. "Gone. Who? Molly?"

"Irene." His brows rose in surprise. "I had enough of an idea of where she was headed after we parted ways in Pakistan, it was not much work to track her down."

"Bit dangerous, wasn't that?"

He shrugged. "Foolish, at the least. But in a strange bout of sentiment, when I truly craved the company of my blogger, the next best thing was…"

"The company of her flogger?"

"A familiar face," Sherlock scowled. "Really, John, such pedestrian humor does not suit you." He turned to watch the lights of passing cars and shops. "She assisted me a couple of times when I was injured or sick."

"She gave you that violin, didn't she?" Sherlock nodded once, curtly. "Where is she now?"

He turned back to look at John, brows furrowed thoughtfully. "In all honesty- I don't know."

X-X

_The next time, it was a year. The only communication they shared in that time was a postcard she received some seven months after he left, a postcard with no message and no return address. On the front was an artist's depiction of the ancient Pharos lighthouse in Alexandria; she had texted him from Egypt, told him to come relieve her of boredom, come have dinner. She could not be positive it was from him, of course, but the likelihood of anyone else sending something like that, something meaningful, if only slightly, to two dead people…_

_Even thinking the postcard was from him, she hadn't _really_ expected him to come back again. But there he was one Tuesday afternoon as she returned from the market, sitting casual as ever in the front parlor, a cup of tea- he must have made it himself- sitting on the table beside him._

"_You startled me."_

"_An unequivocal falsehood, you displayed alarm in neither gait nor expression."_

_Well, he still sounded like the same Sherlock Holmes._

_He may have sounded the same, but he was different this time. The year's absence had wrought change on him, subtle yet glaring. Change that manifested in his unwillingness to touch the violin; his regular appearance in her company, if only to sit quietly. It wasn't that he was particularly more loquacious than before, but he seemed hesitant to… be alone? _

_But her soft promptings as to his whereabouts or doings in the past year went unanswered as ever; he showed no signs that he even heard the questions._

_X-X_

"_My arm healed nicely." _

_For an hour they had both been sitting in the same room in total silence, as they had done every day for the past two weeks since his sudden arrival. It was the first she recalled him breaking the silence unprompted; it reminded her of more than two years prior now when his murmured, 'Coventry,' had interrupted his violin plucking. He had been speaking to an absent John at the time though._

"_Good. Doctor Mihra is very good."_

"_The housekeeper was roaming my rooms again today." A questioning pause. "You trust her? Anita? Adari?" _

"_You know her name, Sherlock," she chastised. And she's been with me five years." _

"_You trust her?" _

"_She knows my story; she's my eyes and ears where I can't go. I trust her with my life."_

_They lapsed into another lengthy silence before he said so softly, "Have you ever thought about going back?" _

_Sherlock Holmes, dealing in the hypothetical, in the fantastic. "Of course. London is home, after all."_

"_To feel sentiment for a place…"_

"_It's not just a place. It's familiar people, daily comforts." _

"_Friends; people you like, people you don't like…"_

"_What?" _

_He shook his head, emerging from a sort of reverie. "You could probably return eventually. Soon," he clarified. _

"_What, and give up all this?" she teased lightly. _

"_You are not happy here."_

"_I'm safe from the prying eyes of the CIA, your brother. James Moriarty and his cronies."_

"_Safe," he scoffed. "Safe is dull. Boring."_

"_Yet you're still here."_

_He didn't have a response to that._

_X-X_

_Most of the time, Irene was thankful that she did not experience the world with the hyper-awareness possessed by the consulting detective. But there were moments, few and far between, where she would have given anything to be able to read him with the skill he used to read her. And the moment where she wanted it more than ever was when he coolly, calmly, casually, informed her, "I will be gone by morning." He'd spent nearly a month in Mumbai with her, so his departure was not unexpected; but never before had he come and gone with any warning whatsoever. _

"_For how long?" _

"_I don't know. Regardless, you should never count on my return; each time you see me may well be the last."_

_Well obviously. She steeled herself, not keen on getting emotionally riled right before he left. "Sherlock, why are you here?"_

_His expression closed off abruptly. "If you'd rather I not return, I can-"_

"_That's not what I said," she cut him off. "Why? You obviously have resources to get by well on your own, you don't need to come here, it's certainly out of your way." _

"_Being out of the way makes it a good place to avoid detection."_

_His faux-obliviousness was overwhelming. "Yes. But you have all of Mumbai, the rest of India, or hundreds of other places I'm guessing you could retreat to when whatever you're up to gets to be too much," his eyes narrowed. "Why do you continue to return _here_, to my house?"_

_He was quiet long enough that she assumed he was ignoring her question. At last though, he spoke up softly, hesitantly. "Familiarity, the reminder of home… it has become everything, with the rest of me reduced to nothing."_

X-X

Following a similar protocol as before, the cabbie dropped them just off the main road, Sherlock unwilling to give a more specific destination, and leaving them to walk several blocks in the chilly darkness. Head down, hunched against a cold breeze and hands shoved into his pockets, John followed him quietly, wondering what a prominent German crime lord was doing in a posh London borough but unwilling to voice the question he knew would be ignored or deflected.

After ten minutes, Sherlock turned so suddenly up the path to a modest townhouse that John nearly barreled on past him. Wondering whether this was a break-in or an unannounced arrival, he was vaguely surprised on the stoop to find it neither, as Sherlock simply turned the doorknob and found it unlocked.

Everything that Molly Hooper's flat had been, this house was not. It was harsh, all angles and sharp lines, pristine and pure as though it had never actually been inhabited. As much as the pink had made him cringe, this place was too neutral- white walls and beige carpet, furniture in hues of brown and not a splash of character, of color, to be found in the place. It felt cold.

Heightening that perception- and perhaps betraying some of the others- was the lone figure sitting on the sofa. Legs crossed casually, he was a man of medium height and build, perhaps in his fifties, gone grey but he wore it well. He had a light smile that served to soften an otherwise harsh face and dark eyes that were taking in every detail of Sherlock before he even deigned to spare John a second glance.

"My dear man," the stranger- _was this Karl Müller?-_ rose to his feet. His voice carried just enough accent to require some effort to understand, but not so much as to render him incomprehensible. "Oh, how long since I've seen your face- your hair is longer, I like it," he circled Sherlock, sizing him up and down; the detective did not move, only followed him with his eyes. "I burned the image in here though," he pointed at his temple. "Burned every last memory of you and clung to it, used it to hold on to myself through it all…"

When he returned front and center- at some point, John had moved out of his way but had no memory of it, had simply obeyed the unspoken demand- he reached slowly for Sherlock's hands and, to John's amazement, the detective complied without hesitation. "These hands," Müller spoke adoringly, "these _talented_ hands. During the long and cold nights, I envisioned these hands, playing Bach, playing his Sonata, bringing me to tears…"

He pulled Sherlock forward and down slightly, their foreheads barely brushing. John stood awkwardly by, feeling wholly lost and out of place but sure as hell unwilling to let the pair out of his sight. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "It was the last time," he spoke quietly. "I could not bear the memory, the guilt," a single tear dropped from his lashes in both eyes, leaving unchecked wet streaks down his cheeks. "Though it can bring no consolation, I hope you realize his death was not my intent."

Müller pulled back slightly, opening his eyes; sensing his gaze, Sherlock followed suit. "I never dreamed it, my friend. Not once. Though I'm sure you realize it changes nothing for us here, tonight."

"Of course."

The frown on John's face was deepening. If Müller was here, seemingly alone and unarmed- why had they not just grabbed him and taken him in, called Mycroft or even Lestrade to arrest him?

It was becoming painfully obvious that there was _far_ more to this than Sherlock had let on.

"Your friend is confused. You have not told him the role he is yet to play tonight?"

"He'd have been too noble to allow things to come this far," Sherlock murmured, looking at John with a trace of apology in his eyes. And that was when John knew, without a doubt, that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. "Would have only worked himself silly attempting to contrive an alternate solution."

Müller smiled broadly. "Ah- a loyal friend then. But of course, to trust with the most important of tasks. I am glad we understand one another, Sherlock Holmes," he said the name as though testing it out for the first time, rolling it around in his mouth and his head for a moment. "Sherlock," he repeated. "You know me well enough to know I am uncompromising in this."

"Yes, Karl."

"Then let us sit."

John stepped in front of his friend and held up a hand. "Sherlock…"

"Go upstairs, John-"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Go upstairs," he repeated firmly. "Second door on the right. You'll understand everything. Go on," he gestured. "I'll still be here whenever you're done. Take as much time as you need."

And with an ever-growing sense of dread and trepidation, John walked stiffly towards the stairs. It was against his better judgment to leave the two men alone downstairs, but the burning curiosity was too much.

Müller led Sherlock to the sofa as they watched him disappear from sight. "Blindly devoted to follow you this far without the truth."

"He does deserve rather more."

"I understand you made quite the scene upon your return from death." Sherlock murmured noncommittally. "You'll require proof of life, of course."

"Naturally."

"We will wait for your friend before making the call. In the meantime," he withdrew a small envelope from his pocket marked with a familiar logo, "our rendezvous this evening." Sherlock opened the envelope and withdrew a ticket; he flinched. "The London Symphony is no comparison to Vienna," Müller sighed wistfully, "but I should like to enjoy the music one last time with a true aficionado. I know it is hard," he laid a land gently on the detective's knee, "we shall only stay for half."

While they made their agreement, John Watson was standing beside a dresser in the second room on the right, reading an impossible letter, and realizing that everything he thought he knew about Sherlock Holmes had gone and flipped upside-down and sideways while he wasn't looking. And as he realized the meaning of the mysterious _Bluebell_, he was torn between laughter and tears, and eventually settled for a choking sob that was a combination of both.

X-X

It wasn't the tip that came barely two hours after the incident at Heathrow that surprised Mycroft Holmes, but rather that the tip yielded seemingly fantastic results. It spoke a bit too much to his superior faith in his brother's investigative abilities above the intelligence services, that he expected one lone detective and his faithful sidekick to locate a terrorist before a team with all the substantial resources of the British government at its disposal.

Yet the tip about the suspicious van in the vicinity of Piccadilly Circus certainly had not come from Sherlock, and turned up quite a substantial quantity of explosive that matched the signature of that used in the terminal along with several thousands in pounds, dollars, and euros. Two suspects were on their way to be interrogated but by and large, it looked as though the entire process had gone quickly and smoothly for a surprising change.

So what was his brother up to? With a sigh, he withdrew his mobile, contemplated texting Sherlock, thought better, and sent the message to John Watson instead. The doctor had already proven himself willing to goad Sherlock into responding, even if those responses were infuriatingly unsatisfactory.

_Suspects apprehended- so who is Sherlock after? –Mycroft Holmes_

It had been a tense, exhausting couple of hours, his attention divided between trying to locate his wayward brother and following the official efforts among intelligence to identify and locate the bombers. But with his text to John, he allowed himself to feel marginally optimistic that he might bring Sherlock in tonight, discover the substance of his antics, and begin delving into his brother's past endeavors.

He was so close to writing off the entire scene with _Bluebell_ and Sherlock's interest in the one dead woman as a bizarre red herring of sorts- when his aide tapped on his door, a mildly apologetic expression on his face. "Thomas," Mycroft acknowledged warily.

"Sir, you wanted anything unusual about Aditi Prakesh?" His slender brows shot up towards his hairline. "Well, we've got it- there's a passenger unaccounted for from the Los Angeles flight, can't be located among the dead or the survivors- booked on the same itinerary as Prakesh."

X-X

**A/N: Thanks for reading! **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This chapter picks up directly from the end of chapter 7. I do hope you enjoy.**

**Chapter 8**

_A missing passenger…_ "Details," Mycroft demanded. "Name?"

"Leila Baxter."

"And what do we know about her?"

Thomas hesitated a moment. "Ah- very little, sir. She's three. Nearly. Her passport- American- was issued as an infant, so it is hardly a wealth of information."

Useless, in fact. Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and started pulling files back up on his computer. He had the full flight manifest in seconds and he brought up the information on both Baxter and Prakesh. Different surnames- and nationalities- did not necessarily mean they were unrelated, though in her fifties, it seemed somewhat unlikely that Prakesh were the young girl's mother. "Find me a picture of the girl; from LAX if you can't locate a clear one from Heathrow."

While his aide set about the task, he began perusing the travel histories of the two- from the time the girl's passport was issued when she was three months old, they were identical. Mumbai, Los Angeles, London, Paris, New York… exceptionally well-traveled for a toddler, to be sure, but nothing telling about the fact. Something about the dates of the most recent trip tugged at the back of his mind, but he set aside the line of thinking for the time being as Thomas supplied a few seconds of footage from the Heathrow tapes a few minutes prior to the blast.

"The best angle I can find." Prakesh was carrying the dark-haired girl, making her face difficult to see. They were walking up the long corridor, past the gates and shops, heading towards… His thoughts ground to a halt. They were next to gate C11; the bomb had been detonated at C17. They were already well-outside the radius where they'd have been at significant risk for serious injury. Thomas followed his line of thinking. "They were seated in first class; likely among the first off the plane. But they could have turned and gone back for something," his aide supplied softly.

"No." He sat back in his chair and exhaled heavily. "No, Aditi Prakesh was not killed in the blast. _That_ is what drew my brother's attention, though I don't know what alerted him to the fact." If someone had waited until the explosion, when the cameras would be offline, and then took the girl, killed the woman, moved her body back to the bloody scene in the chaos…

"We'll need a better image of the girl. At least until we can locate anyone else who might be missing her." Did Sherlock even know that there was a hostage involved in the situation he was pursuing? Or had he just blindly followed the clues, assuming they would lead to whomever had set off the bomb? Was the apparent kidnapping even related, or someone taking advantage of the circumstances?

Thomas was already on it. He found the security footage from LAX as the targeted flight began to board, and searched backwards until he found the woman and the girl boarding. From there, he traced them across two other cams in the seating area until he finally got a distant but decent look at the girl's face as she sat, short legs swinging idly, beside Prakesh. She was pale; if they were related, Mycroft ruled out the possibility that it was by blood.

For a moment, he watched the girl's face as her head turned, watching something or someone in the terminal. "Get a frame to Home Office, contact Drew Weston, he'll want to be apprised of the situation since the girl is American… wait," he held up a hand as Thomas stood. He was frowning at the screen as the girl raised a small hand and smiled. "Who is she waving to here?"

Thomas navigated the different security cam angles proficiently, eventually pulling up a crowded shot of bustling tourists moving past a food court and frowned. "Somewhere in here…" he murmured, looking for any sign of acknowledgement aimed in the direction of the little girl.

Mycroft saw her first; saw her even before the half-wave gave her away. Saw her and blinked several times in utter disbelief as a weight settled heavily into his stomach and the entire puzzle he'd been compiling in his mind blew apart, the pieces rearranging themselves slowly but headed in a direction he was growing frightened to follow.

Quietly, betraying none of the dread seeping into his mind, he ordered his aide, "Get me the manifest of every flight from LAX to London today- any airport, by departure time. Sort out female passengers, aged thirty to fifty."

It took only two flights to find her, a different airline headed to Gatwick three hours after the ill-fated flight left for Heathrow. An alias of course, Sasha Maren, American passport- one that had been stamped in many of the same places as Leila Baxter and Aditi Prakesh, but never at quite the same times. She was older and the passed time showed in the passport photograph, but it was unmistakably her. The Woman.

Irene Adler.

"Oh, Sherlock…"

"Sir?"

Voice deadly calm as he reached for a file in his desk, Mycroft asked him to pull the travel details from Leila Baxter's passport again. It took only seconds to confirm what he feared. Earlier this month- New York, arrival November third, departure November eleventh. Sherlock- gone missing November second, resurfaced November twelfth just ahead of John's return from Kent.

He kept going. March of this year, he'd disappeared late morning and turned back up after midnight, the same day the pair had traveled through Paris; enough time to take a train and back with several hours in between. December last, a journey to London that nearly coincided with one of Adler's as well- four days in one week, Sherlock had dropped off the grid.

Mycroft sat back heavily and put his head in his hands, trying to clear his mind and think, reconcile months- _years_- of suspicion with this almost inconceivable truth. Was it even possible? Had his brother truly kept a secret of this magnitude for so long? He'd accused his brother, his brilliant little brother, of sneaking away to fix a recurring addiction.

He was going to see his child.

X-X

_When he showed up three months later, he slept for sixteen straight hours after walking in the door, barely taking the time to remove his coat and shoes. Upon awaking, he tore into a bowl of curry chicken with a vengeance, and she wondered just how long Sherlock Holmes had to go without eating before he surrendered to this sort of ravenous show._

_There was no outward sign of injury, but he looked different, damaged. A flash of something akin to rage would periodically replace the deadness she normally saw in his eyes now, and it terrified her. _

"_Sherlock, you have to stop this."_

_He twitched, said nothing._

"_When you were last here, you said you were reduced to nothing, but that's not the truth, is it? They've stripped away what you were- your humanity- and they're forging something new out of it. Something that scares me."_

"_Even in death, Moriarty continues to beat me in the game."_

_X-X_

_It was three days before she could bring herself to ask. "What game?" _

_Sherlock stood in the front parlor, his back to her while he stared out the window. It was raining, lightly, just past the monsoon season. The question came with no immediate lead-in, no context, but he still knew exactly to what she referred. And he was surprisingly straightforward and detailed in answering, with little pause. _

"_The first time I met James Moriarty, he'd strapped John into a bomb vest, had us both targeted by snipers. Told me to leave him alone or else he would 'burn the heart out of me.' That wasn't enough though," his tone was bitter. "He had to take even more. Parts of me I didn't even know I had." _

_She approached and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. He flinched as if burned, and she withdrew again. "What do you need? What can I do?"_

"_You've done all I could ask." _

"_You've asked nothing. Save to stay here." _

"_And it is enough."_

X-X

The fourth read-through of the letter rendered it no more comprehensible to John Watson's ordinary, average mind. Sure, he _understood_ the content- but not its full ramifications. He stared blankly around the room, furnished and sparsely decorated for a young girl but yet uninhabited, eyed the stuffed animal, a plush rabbit sitting atop the dresser next to where he'd found the letter, and then turned his attention back to the familiar, scribbling scrawl once more.

_Dear Leila,_

_You cannot yet read, so I am not wholly sure as to the point of this letter. Your mother seems to feel it shall be a good exercise in sentiment; I am not so confident and, by the time you can read and understand this, I assume you will know why, but I shall do my level best._

_We've not spent much time in one another's presence as yet in your short life- again, something you will better comprehend with age. Only at our last meeting did you remember me well enough to not be initially frightened and distrusting of me. And that's fine. You might know the word, but I doubt you are truly cognizant of the nature of our relationship. I look forward to bettering that relationship during your time spent in London- is that sentiment? Perhaps. I shall have to ask your mother. _

_Or John. John has a son, younger than you, I observe them to try to understand these things. You will like John, as he will undoubtedly be the one to intercede on my behalf when I do and say things that upset you. It will happen; it will be unintentional but nonetheless inevitable. _

_I have left you a gift. Not being well-versed in the interests of young girls, Aditi suggested I get you a stuffed animal- the plush sort, not the taxidermy sort, your mother was sure to clarify. In an inexplicable fit of reminiscence, I named the thing after a rabbit John and I once encountered on a case. Someday, perhaps you will read the story of the glowing Bluebell on John's blog. Your rabbit does not glow- the shopkeeper looked positively perplexed at my interest in such a thing._

_As I have now strayed far and wide from the point, I shall simply conclude- Happy birthday, and welcome to London. _

He didn't know how long he had been sitting on the floor, back pressed against the hard wall, staring blankly ahead at nothing when the buzzing of his phone shook him from his shock. Mycroft again- he ignored it. Not possessing the capable mind of the Holmes brothers, any further information threatened to overload his ordinary one.

So Sherlock had inadvertently killed the man's son; and in return, the man had kidnapped Sherlock's daughter? The thought made his blood boil, but then the man had killed a few dozen people to cover up the kidnapping so what did he expect? But what he could not understand- Müller had known Sherlock would show up, obviously, he had the worst leverage over him. So why not just grab him and go? What else did he have planned- Sherlock had mentioned the man had a moral code of sorts, and _he_ seemed to have figured out what he wanted. But John was, as ever, lost, beyond that it was undoubtedly more than a bit not good.

The warm presence of another body sliding down the wall to sit beside him startled him; he had not even heard the footsteps. For a long time, they sat there in silence, until John wiped away the last stray tears from his face and turned up to look at his friend. His best friend about whom he knew so little. _I don't know you anymore_- how true had those words been?

"I'm sorry."

Those weren't the words he was expecting. "What for?"

"For what I've done that's visibly upset you; for what I must do now, for which you'll never forgive me."

"You can't just go with him."

"Don't you realize that I have no choice?"

"He'll kill her anyway."

"He won't," Sherlock asserted quietly. "He doesn't work like that. He's not Moriarty."

John balled his fists in incredulous frustration. "He bombed an airport."

Sherlock hesitated, then sighed. "No, he didn't. Discovered a group plotting an attack and provided substantial incentive as to the when and where, yes. Not a forgivable distinction to the average human being but… well, that he is not."

"Is it forgivable to you?"

The detective looked sharply at him before jumping to his feet and pacing about in short, frantic circles. "Don't be stupid," he hissed. "Just because I understand his mind and his method doesn't mean I approve. A woman I trusted and respected is dead because of him." He came to a sudden halt and glared down at the impassive doctor. "You have no idea- _no_ idea- what it is like to observe evil, to understand its methods, its weaknesses, to mimic it to bring yourself closer to a target and the adrenaline of knowing you're always a single slip away from torture, from death. To use any means at your disposal- a knowledge of music, a tolerance for hard drugs, an apathy towards the usual emotional implications of sex- because you trust that the outcome of your transgression against every fundamental instinct will be for the greatest good and will further ensure the protection of those you care most about. You have no idea, so don't you _dare_ judge what I have been, John Watson."

A heavy, oppressive silence fell over them before Sherlock sank back down to the floor and put his head in his hands. John had seen him rattled before, beside the pool after ripping an explosive vest off of him and sliding it across the tile; had seen him frightened, after unknowingly being exposed to hallucinogenic drugs that rendered an ordinary large dog into a monstrous hound from hell but this, this was something else entirely. He felt rattled and frightened but above all of that, he felt overwhelming, unmanageable _guilt_.

_Go to hell. _

_I've already been. _

He was beginning to fully understand just what that meant. What toll those years had truly exacted on the detective.

"You didn't do this, Sherlock. This isn't your fault, none of it."

"I grew careless."

"You didn't. Even Mycroft couldn't figure out what you were up to. You could never have known that she was in danger from a man you believed to be dead."

Sherlock looked up curiously, head cocked slightly to the side as he regarded his former flat mate closely. "It's not about _her_. Three dozen people and a caregiver she's known since infancy are dead, but she was never in any true danger- as confidently as I know Müller would never kill a young child did he know I would exchange myself for her. But you, John- that I could let it come to this between us again and still have the gall to ask a last favor of you. Because you know why it is you're here, don't you?"

John shook his head wordlessly. 

Standing once more, Sherlock turned to look out the bedroom window, a bedroom that would now never be occupied by its intended resident. Two cars had appeared on the street since their arrival, undoubtedly summoned by the man waiting patiently downstairs. "Müller will give me a couple of hours to set my affairs in order," he murmured monotonously. "He's already dictated a rendezvous this evening where I will turn myself over."

"And then he'll just… let her go?" Sherlock turned abruptly and stared hard at him. "Wha-? No. Sherlock… I'm not going to leave you to-"

"I need you to do this for me, John. Who else can I entrust her to? I need you to go with him now and swear to me that you will do everything he tells you."

"Sherlock…"

"_Swear_ it to me, John. Any perception that you plan to attempt an escape, to find a way to recover her first and stop me from giving myself up, and he will make her disappear faster than even I could ever hope to follow. I've told you of his crimes; he has contacts in twenty different countries who would make sure she disappears forever."

The stony silence stretched on for what seemed an eternity.

X-X

_She found him one day sitting in an armchair in the living area adjacent his bedroom. His elbows were propped on the armrests, hands folded together in front of his face, eyes distant and thoughtful. If she hadn't known how ridiculous he must find the idea of religion to be, she'd have said he looked to be praying. The violin was sitting on the table in front of him, still in its case, still untouched since some fifteen months ago. A curiosity, not one she felt compelled to ask about, but he must have sensed her line of inquiry as she perched quietly on the sofa opposite him because when he finally broke his silence after a half hour, he spoke of it. _

"_He was a musician. A hobby, but one to which he had many resources to devote. Piano, cello, violin…"_

"_Who?" she asked softly. _

_Sherlock blinked and shifted his gaze to her face, eyes coming back into focus from whatever dark abyss of thought and memory consumed them. "One of the men I killed, of course."_

_The words were not what got her; rather, the obvious tone of voice, the coolly calm and matter-of-fact way he said it. It was hardly surprising that such was the nature of his forays out into the real world, and he'd killed before- brutally, even, thinking back on their escape from Karachi._

"_How can such talented hands work such… such…depravity?" Irene held silent; she wasn't sure if he was referring to himself or to the dead man. Both, perhaps. He lapsed into another long, brooding silence, broken only when she was moments from leaving him to it. "I can't put off leaving any longer; I'll be gone by dawn. There's a man flying through Bali in three days and it looks to be the only chance I'll have to locate him."_

_Quiet warning bells began sounding in her head; he never spoke of his activities, ever. "What did he do?" _

"_Bit of everything," Sherlock shrugged and surged to his feet, turning to stare out the window. "Drug cartels, contract killing, sex trafficking."_

_Contract killing. His tie to Moriarty, Irene assumed. "Sounds dangerous."_

"_Yes," he murmured. "It is." _

"_It's alright to be frightened." She slowly stood and joined him, laying a hand lightly over his where it rested on the window sill. "And… you don't have to do this." _

_Sherlook looked sharply sideways at her, that brief bout of ire flashing through his eyes, so fast she would have thought it imagined were it the first time she'd seen it happen. His voice was calm and measured though when he spoke. "I will not leave my friends to face the consequences of my cowardice. To them, I am already dead, the impact will be minimal."_

The impact of what? Already dead_… "Sherlock…" Expression closing off once more, he turned back to the window. "If you run off with the expectation of getting killed, you're asking it to happen."_

"_I am acutely aware of the reality in which I'm operating, _Ms. _Adler." _

"_Then don't give up now. Don't let Moriarty win." He started to open his mouth but she cut him off. "He _hasn't_ already won, don't give him the satisfaction. Finish the job, Sherlock, if you must, but don't give up. You'll go back home soon, and until then, you're always welcome here."_

_A bitter smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "Every time I return here, I heighten the risk of being seen, followed. Every time I leave, I tell myself it's the last."_

"_Then why do you continue to return?"_

"_Familiarity?" he suggested. "Weakness? Sentiment?" _

Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_. Sherlock was slave to sentiment, if only slightly. Just like the rest of them. Sentiment had led him to save her in Karachi three years ago. _

"_Do you remember what you asked me? Before Mycroft summoned me away?"_

If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night…

"_Would you?"_

_He let out a huff of humorless laughter; not laughing at her, she didn't think, but that it should come down to it, the end of his world in its own way. But the cynicism was gone from his face when he turned to look at her, his dark eyes searching her face carefully, reading the thoughts and feelings she freely showed, feeling far more exposed before him than she had at their first meeting. _

_He reached out, long fingers wrapping around to rest against the pulse point of her wrist, raising her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. "I would," he informed her quietly._

X-X

The announcement that an issue on the ground at Gatwick would necessitate a rerouting to Edinburgh, and sorry for the inconvenience, did not strike Irene Adler as necessarily suspicious.

The announcement two hours later that they would proceed to London after all and land at Stansted, and we hope that will prove more amenable to your final travel plans, was what put her on edge.

The announcement that they would be disembarking on the tarmac and shuttling to the gate, and please mind your step on the stairs, was when she concluded that something was decidedly wrong. She just couldn't decide if that trouble was more likely from official sources or criminal ones- a question which was answered quickly and without pretense when a young and distracted man greeted her by the false name on her passport and directed her to the sleek black car that had pulled alongside the aircraft, as two hundred other disgruntled people packed onto crowded shuttles.

When her eyes adjusted to the dark interior of the vehicle that was already quickly departing the scene, she found the all-too-familiar face of Mycroft Holmes peering at her with an expression that suggested he was no more pleased by her presence in the car than she.

"Couldn't just let me be dead, Mister Holmes?"

"As blissful as I found ignorance these last seven years, circumstances do conspire." She cocked a brow questioningly, and he smiled thinly. "I apologize if I must be blunt, but time is a consideration. There was an incident at Heathrow three hours ago; your daughter was taken, her guardian is dead, and Sherlock has disappeared, presumably in search of her, and is unresponsive to my attempts to reach out to him. I fear he is going to do something incredibly stupid in the effort to get her back but until he or John Watson accepts my help, my hands are tied by my ignorance regarding her captors and their motives.

"In short," he looked positively pained as he ground out the next words, ignoring her stunned shock, "I need your help, Ms. Adler."

X-X

**A/N**: **Well…. There you have it. The big secret. Dun dun dun indeed. Shall hopefully have chapter 9 in a couple days and the whole thing done by the end of the weekend (10 chapters + epilogue).**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: A quick heads-up- I am thwarted in writing this week by a baby who seems to feel sleep is for the weak. I have a paper due end of next week for school, and will be moving over that weekend (life is never dull). So bear with me if the last two parts are a bit slower in coming. I know, terrible point in the story to make you wait, and I shall do my very best to get it done over this coming weekend when I can shamelessly pawn the baby off on my husband. ;-) But if chapter 10 is not along in a couple days, never fear, it will get done soon as possible!**

**As ever, thanks for favs and follows and reviews! Hope I continue to please!**

**Chapter 9**

Sharing a quiet car ride with a man who planned on killing his best friend was a vaguely surreal experience, John decided. Müller watched him calmly but with a hawkish sort of gaze that put him on edge. It was much more cutting than Sherlock's _I'm reading your very soul_ observation and probably nearly as effective.

"You were a soldier, yes?" the gentle German lilt to his voice sounded obnoxiously understanding and compassionate. John grunted his affirmation. "Then I realize this must be difficult- you've long been willing to die for your friend, but being asked to _live_ for him instead… you are very loyal. I wish I had someone I could trust with the unerring faith Sherlock has in you."

"If you were as good a man as Sherlock, maybe you would."

His broad smile grated on John and he slunk back down into his seat. Oh, how he wanted to haul off and punch the daylights out of that man. But he couldn't. He'd promised to behave. Like a mad fool, he'd promised- _sworn_- to be a good boy for the murdering criminal so he could take charge of a girl he'd never met while her father handed himself over like a wrapped gift with a bow on top.

Well, he'd sworn it after raging at the man for several long minutes, and Sherlock stood passively by and accepted the abuse heaped upon him, until Müller descended on the scene and calmly informed the two of them that they were on something of a schedule, if they wouldn't mind hurrying things along. And then Sherlock had done the strangest thing of all and pulled John into a tight embrace.

"_Remember what I told you in the car_," he'd hissed in his ear. And John had awkwardly returned the hug to give himself time to scowl and think and wonder what help was the fact that Sherlock didn't know anything about Irene Adler's current whereabouts- he'd never said as much, but she _had_ to be Leila's mother- before it struck him.

_Notes, for Mycroft. Information was the price of getting access at the airport_.

Of course. Leave it to him to miss the bleeding obvious. Of _course_ Sherlock had a plan. The detective who could see events unfold twelve steps before they occurred, bargaining information he'd sworn three years ago never to give Mycroft, taking the opportunity in the car to seemingly goad Mycroft with the information that Irene Adler was alive all this time… as ever, the brothers were playing their own game and that game had such bizarre rules that John never knew quite what was going on. But Mycroft, with all the resources that came with being the British government- well, if anyone could help Sherlock out thwart Müller's plans, it was him. God, that had to just kill Sherlock to admit.

The look of relief in Sherlock's eyes as he read John's sudden understanding made him feel a little bad for being so slow on the uptake.

Plan to get them through this aside, John still had to put up with playing nice for the criminal and that was threatening his substantial amount of self-control considerably. Müller pressed on, probably enjoying the obvious disdain the man sitting across from him held but could not express. "Your friend is a great many things- _good_ is not a word I would choose."

_Well you're plotting his death, you don't get a say. _

"Good is so very absolute; it leaves no room for the interesting parts. The parts I doubt he ever told you about. Good men do not kill harmless boys in their sleep."

"Even good men make mistakes." Okay, so good men probably didn't kill _anyone_ in their sleep for the most part but, all apologies to Lestrade, sometimes you just had to bypass the proper legal channels and take justice into your own hands.

"I've pieced together a great deal of your friend's colorful, vengeful tour around the world- would you like to know about any more of his misdeeds?" God help him if he wasn't curious, but he certainly wouldn't trust this man's version of the truth. And anyway- it was Sherlock's story to tell, if he ever so chose. "But of course- you'd rather the memory of your hero not be tarnished."

Jaw clenched shut, John turned to stare out the window as they passed slowly through crowded London streets. It was rush hour now; he wouldn't tell him the precise details of when and where this rendezvous between he and Müller was to take place, but Sherlock had kindly informed him that he would tell Mary that John would be home by ten, just before John felt in his pockets and discovered that Sherlock had boosted his mobile from him, most likely while they were sitting on the floor of the bedroom upstairs.

In less than five hours, this whole fiasco would be over. Because Sherlock and Mycroft had a plan. Of course they did- they were the Holmes brothers, and there wasn't a problem in the world they weren't clever enough to solve between them.

X-X

"Tell me about her."

Irene glanced up from her mobile; her fingers itched to dial Sherlock's number but Mycroft had threatened to ship her off to be detained until he sorted this whole thing out if she so much as texted the man. He thought her arrival in London and venture into potential danger would be too great a distraction, and was disbelieving of her assertion that it really wouldn't- they weren't a couple. He might have gone to Karachi for her once, but she could be face down on the executioner's block and he still wouldn't rescue her if Leila was in danger too. Sherlock himself might not have realized that about himself before tonight, but Irene had. To her great relief.

"Hm?" She'd been caught up in wild thoughts casting between her daughter being in danger, and Aditi being dead and feeling bad about being unable to properly mourn the loss with so much else going on.

It spoke to what bit of compassion Mycroft Holmes must possess that he kept the condescension out of his voice as he rephrased. "My _niece_." He put a funny emphasis on the word, like he couldn't quite wrap his mouth and mind around it. The man had undoubtedly never anticipated having such a relationship in his life. "I'd like to know about her."

"She's…" _In mortal danger? Possibly hurt, traumatized, heartbroken? _"She's a lot like Sherlock. Quiet, determined when she's working through a problem; a holy terror when she doesn't get her way."

A genuine smile actually touched his lips briefly before he schooled his expression once more.

"Out of unfortunate necessity, she's been more sheltered than is good for her. So she doesn't take well to new people right away. Leila and Sherlock are still feeling out their relationship- you can probably guess well enough how that has gone, on his end."

"His persistence in the effort still speaks volumes."

"How long has he been infuriating you, running off and giving no idea why?"

A look she could have sworn was guilt flashed quickly through his eyes, before he turned his attention out the car window and nodded, "We're here." Baker Street looked the same as ever, though it had been more than seven years now since she'd last seen it. "Are you sure-?"

"No," she shrugged. "But it's the best guess I have."

Mycroft's people had been staking out Sherlock's usual places since he'd left Heathrow, with especial surveillance over 221B. So there was no reason to feel uneasy about entering the once-familiar residence, but she still felt a certain foreboding as they exited the car and slipped quickly in the front door.

Of course Mycroft had a key.

They were up the stairs before Mrs. Hudson had any chance of catching them in the entry way. Another turn from Mycroft's key, and they were in the flat where she had committed her ultimate betrayal of Sherlock and the man with his bleeding sentiment had _still _come to save her. The place looked somewhat more chaotic than she remembered, without the orderly touch of John to tame the mess.

"Sherlock never talked about his work, but I could still read some of it on him. The stress, the fear, the despair... and he had a physical association, somehow related to something he'd seen or something he'd done, but he came to compartmentalize all of it into this one thing, this one object, and if there were any place I'd expect him to hide away memories of those years, it would be there." She looked carefully around the cluttered living area, unwilling to let herself feel bad for going through his things. "Tell me, Mister Holmes," she peered into Sherlock's bedroom, found it as tidy and barren of clutter as it had been years ago, and moved on, "have you heard your brother play the violin in recent years?"

X-X

"_Were you going to say anything?" _

_She peered over her shoulder at where the sullen, pale Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, a blanket wrapped around his too-thin frame, hot cup of tea clasped between hands he barely kept from trembling. His strength was slowly returning; enough that he'd been allowed to travel the night prior from Doctor Mihra's house to her own, though the trip had exhausted him to the point of collapse- he'd barely made it to the sofa in the front parlor. _

"_Not if you didn't bring it up." _

_The bristle of irritation was practically palpable- at her response itself, or the implication that he might not notice something so… monumental? _

"_It was foolish to keep it."_

"_That's on me, not you."_

_That sent him into a long period of silent contemplation. She continued with breakfast, eventually setting down a plate of eggs and sausage for him and some buttered toast for herself. _

"_You needn't have prepared food that makes you ill." _

_Her eyes narrowed. "I just wanted toast- you need protein." _

"_Hm." Weak, recovering from infections and illnesses, and he still packed all his trademark condescension in one syllable that wasn't even a word. "Why did you?" _

"_What?" _

"_Keep it."_

_His clinical detachment was cold but not unexpected. "I don't know. Sentiment? Boredom? Life has been dreadfully dull these past three years. Death is so… absolute." Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn he flinched; surely it was imagined, though. "You needn't worry, I'm not asking anything of you."_

"_Of course not," he conceded. "Even if you had been confident of my return, I'd hardly be expected at the best of times- alive in the eyes of the world, reputation untarnished- to make an adequate guardian." _

_She wondered if it was a refusal to draw any more personal connection to the situation than already existed that he chose 'guardian' instead of 'father.'_

X-X

Someone had been in the flat. That much was obvious at a glance.

It took him a few more glances and maybe ten seconds to realize who, and he blamed that on this wholly different sort of anxiety he was experiencing tonight that was making his mind race in a thousand directions of _maybes _and_ what-ifs _and what good did any of that do for anybody, anyway?

A few more seconds and fingers hovering over his mobile to snark at Mycroft, before it occurred to him to wonder _what_ Mycroft had been doing in his flat as he damn well knew Sherlock hadn't been in it at the time, his ghouls were still outside but Sherlock would be gone before his brother could come running back.

Because he hadn't been looking for Sherlock. He'd been looking for something else. Something Sherlock had promised him he could have and then failed to deliver.

The impatient prat.

He did not even need to open the violin case though to know that said impatient prat had successfully located what he sought; but he opened it anyway and took out the instrument before working the edge of the velvet lining up and pulling it away from the hard back of the case. Sure enough- nothing.

The rest of the flat was in disarray, but it was the general disarray in which he normally lived- very little besides the violin had been touched. How had Mycroft known where to look? The only people who were likely to make that connection were John and Irene, and he knew it hadn't yet occurred to John and Irene's plane would have been rerouted after today's events.

He supposed Mycroft could have discovered her flight and redirected it to London- but that would imply the two of them were working together and that was simply preposterous. More likely, he had made a deduction from the missing philharmonic ticket Sherlock had stolen from Aditi's possessions. Regardless- it didn't matter. Even if Mycroft discovered Karl Müller's role in everything, there was simply not the time for even him to do anything substantial with it tonight.

Mycroft was good- but he wasn't that good.

X-X

Moriarty had possessed a special brand of crazy, but John was beginning to think that Müller's egotism rivaled that of the dead maniac. It wasn't the Tower of London, but staging a kidnapping and coercing the brother of a powerful government official to hand himself over for certain death from a luxury suite in a five star hotel across the road from the Barbican Centre did have a certain flair. Probably not a bad cover, in the end- plenty of international tourists and businessmen and women visiting this part of the city.

The driver of their car and anyone riding in the second remained outside, pulling away after dropping John and Müller by the front entrance of the Montcalm. It was testament to his confidence in his plan that Müller took no issue with being alone with him. What could he do, without risking everything?

When they were in the elevator, Müller spoke quietly. "You've already seen the girl is safe." They had held a brief video call so Sherlock could confirm she was, in fact, still alive. "When matters are settled between Sherlock and I, she will be brought to-"

"No." John frowned incredulously. "Not acceptable. I want to see her in person, now."

"As I've just said, you've already-"

"Sure, for ten seconds on a mobile screen. I want to make sure she's okay." For a moment, he thought he would refuse- but John pressed on. "Let me guess- to get her out of the airport without suspicion and into the hotel, your men will have knocked her out with something, pretended she was just asleep. You'll forgive me if I don't trust in your thugs' knowledge of properly dosing sedatives in toddlers, but _I'm a doctor_, so I'm going to make sure she's okay or this isn't going anywhere."

It's not like he really had a chip for bargaining here, so he was pleasantly surprised when Müller smiled and inclined his head once. "But of course, I'd quite forgotten. Very well." The elevator stopped and, before the doors could even slide apart, he tapped another button to take them up two more floors. "Yes, Sherlock chose you very wisely, didn't he?"

He gave him five minutes. Leila was groggy and didn't speak a word, but what else had he expected? She was clearly confused and terrified, and she'd periodically sniffle and go watery-eyed but never devolved back into full-on crying, though her eyes were red and her face splotchy. It only took him a minute to decide she was physically fine but then he took a few moments to study her. She had the dark curly hair of both her parents and was very much like Irene Adler through the face.

But she had Sherlock's eyes. And even in her fear, the expression as she watched him was uncannily like his when he was getting ready to deduce somebody's entire life story, and if this three-year-old girl in front of him started talking about his sister's drinking habits, that would just be one step too far.

X-X

Sherlock's extensive records kept through his exile were, at a glance, illegible to Irene, something of which, as his brows rose higher and higher as he glanced through them, Mycroft was increasingly glad. But while he was sure his brother could have developed any number of schemes to encode his notes and render them incomprehensible to even the best cryptographers in the world, he'd fallen back on a scheme the brothers had developed in their youth, before their relationship was largely characterized by subtle (and sometimes outright) hostility.

Unwilling to reflect for long as to Sherlock's reasons for this, he instead skimmed quickly for any information about Vienna during the year gap that Adler identified as the period that seemed to have wrought the most dramatic change over his countenance.

From there, it didn't take long to find what he was looking for.

X-X

After he'd satisfied himself that the girl was physically sound, John was led back down to another suite of rooms where two more of Müller's cronies were sitting, quietly waiting for further instructions from their boss. The ill-disguised curiosity from the men upstairs had given John the distinct impression that none of them really knew what was going on, and he wondered just how untrusting Müller's run-in with Sherlock five years ago had left him.

"Watch him," Müller instructed his men, "I think he'll behave for you though. At 8:15, take him upstairs and wait for my call. Oh," he turned back to John, "and Doctor Watson, before I forget-"

He withdrew a paper from his inner breast pocket that had been folded into thirds. "What's this?"

There was no answer though, just a gentle smile- part reassuring, part… sympathetic?... that settled an icy weight in John's gut. He forced himself to wait until Muller had left the room again though, before opening it; he barely took in the familiar script and read the first line before all the hope was sucked thoroughly out of him, and he slumped down in his chair and put his head in one hand. After a few deep breaths, he summoned the courage to start it again.

_John- _

_I once again find myself in the difficult position of knowing there to be an impending farewell between us and possessing neither the time nor the courage to make an effective go of it. Were the point not utterly moot, I would say that perhaps it is time for you to find yourself a new colleague, as I seem to be cocking this up quite spectacularly of late. You're about to learn something shocking about me and, rather than ease you into the knowledge now, while we have the time, I'm going to take this opportunity to explain. For what it's worth. _

_I always planned to tell you about her. You were to be the first to know. If you haven't yet thought to do the maths, Leila was born a month after I showed up with all the subtlety of a bag of bricks at your surgery. When I told you I had one last matter to see to- it was her. The smart thing would have been, of course, to forget about her mother once more but even I understood that leaving without another word in that situation would be a bit not good. And then we dared to think- well, it doesn't matter. We were cautious. We were not cautious enough._

_You're wondering why I did not confide her existence to you; you think I must not trust you, or am angry that you attempted to deceive me about Irene's "death." The truth, John, is simple cowardice. By now, you have read the note meant to welcome her to the house where she and Aditi were to spend the next three months, before returning to Los Angeles. And if you have indeed read it, you can see that I struggle to relate to this role. I have a barely functional relationship with a brother I've known my whole life, three years of intermittent contact with a child could hardly suffice. _

_When men father children, they are offered cigars and congratulated. When I discovered Irene was pregnant, I rather uncouthly asked her why she hadn't bothered to simply terminate. When she gave birth (I came enough 'round to the idea to at least show up for the event), I felt __noth__… well, I won't say nothing, but not the undying pride that I saw on your face after you brought Daniel home from hospital, and I did not even need that point of reference to understand that my feelings were somewhat lacking. _

_So I said nothing, as the only two possible responses from you, each as unbearable as the other, were to either be congratulated on something for which I could not formulate an adequate emotional response, or for you to demand what business I had going 'round the world fathering children when I was supposed to be dead (rest assured that is hyperbolic and Leila is the only one). _

_In the next half-minute, you are going to ask me what I am working on, writing so quickly in the near-dark as we venture to Earl's Court. Unforgivably, I will lie to you because I cannot very well say it is a farewell message as you are yet unaware of the full circumstances dictating tonight's events, and because when the time comes, it will allow me to lie to you yet again and give you false hope that I have a plan. The great Sherlock Holmes- the clever detective in the funny hat- of course he has a plan. _

_The truth is John, I do not. I can conceive of no practical means to extract Leila from her captor's grip without sacrificing myself to him, and don't you think I've been thinking about it since the airport? Proper familial emotion may evade me entirely but not the overwhelming need to protect her and all else be damned. I can give her that much._

_And so I find myself forced to make one, final request of you, my dear Doctor Watson- let this go. Mycroft will deduce Müller's identity one way or another and he will make a show of searching for what became of me, but Müller has quite the resources and intelligence to lead him on a merry chase so it's rather for the best that you not encourage his efforts. I'll likely be dead before he returns to the continent anyway. The man fully plans to exact his vengeance but he will not make a protracted cruelty of it._

_By now, I expect Mycroft has lit onto Leila's existence and that will lead him to Irene and, after an initial bout of incredulity (I _did_ tell him that sex doesn't alarm me, the presumptuous git), he will realize that she is, in fact, his niece. He will take her under his protection and Irene with her, much as he may loathe the thought- he will do it for me. Do extend my thanks, and if you could see to it that my file reaches him as well, I did give my word._

_There is still so much you do not understand- don't try. You are a good man, a far better one than I. At our basest levels, Müller and I are far more alike than I should generally care to admit. You are a very innocent man, John, to which you will reply that you went to war and you've killed people, and that's all well and good but it misses the point. You stayed true to your own self and fought against evil with your innate goodness; I fight it by drawing on the darkest parts of me and beating it at its own game._

_Or losing, in this particular circumstance._

_I nearly lost myself in the game. I'm sure you've begun to better comprehend much of what we discussed when you were last at the flat. But this, tonight- this is okay. It's fine. I will trust Leila in your good and capable hands. See her to Mycroft, and then return home to your family and be forever grateful that it does not suffer from the spatial dysfunction and emotional handicap that have paralyzed me these past years. _

_We are nearing our destination, so I shall end this missive that is far more loquacious than that I was able to write to my own child, and with a level of sentiment that similarly evaded me- the years of our friendship, even those during which you believed me dead, have made me a far better person. You have saved me from myself in more ways than you realize. I only wish I had proven more worthy of it, rather than to leave you like this, in a betrayal of trust. I hope you shall find it in you to forgive me someday. _

_-Goodbye, my friend -_

_SH_

Gritting his teeth and clenching a fist so hard his nails dug into his palm, John did not even try to stop the tears from falling and staining the paper in his other hand.

X-X

Officially speaking, there was little unusual about a meeting between Erich Hirsch, the assistant deputy to the Defence Attaché at the German Embassy in London and Mycroft Holmes; both occupied minor positions in their respective governments, after all.

Unofficially speaking, an unexpected summons by the latter on a Friday evening following a terrorism incident was met with more than a little trepidation by the former, given their respective positions that were not so public. And the steely glint in Holmes' eyes was enough for Hirsch to guess the topic of the rushed meeting even before a heavy file was dropped unceremoniously in front of him moments after he took the proffered seat in from of Holmes' desk.

"What can you tell me about this man?"

The bold word _deceased_ was stamped across the profile. "It seems he met a suspicious death five years ago in Vienna by way of-"

A hand slammed down on the desk. "Do _not_ play games with me, Erich," Holmes hissed. "My patience today is wearing far thinner than usual."

He sighed. "What do you already know, then, let's make this simple as possible. Have we realized he had some hand in the attack at Heathrow, yes- I can assure you, we were unaware of it beforehand. He has played things very close to his chest of late."

"When did he _escape_ from BND custody?"

"Nine months ago. Useless prisoner."

"And you've a plant among his people?"

"Naturally."

Holmes exhaled heavily and ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Right. Then I regret to inform you that your investigation will come to an end tonight. I am going to need to know everything about where this man is and how I can put myself in touch with your man inside _and_ whatever team is tracking them."

Hirsch frowned at him for a long minute, nonplussed. "I don't know what authority you think you have to-"

"He's held a hostage since the Heathrow incident, yes? A little girl?"

"Yes," Hirsch sat up a little straighter, "how did you know? Müller isn't letting anyone in the loop on the situation. I can tell you she hasn't been harmed."

"No, she wouldn't have been- he needs her as leverage over the man who was responsible for the attempt on his life that killed his son, Victor." Hirsch blinked. "I believe your people are distantly acquainted with him- he certainly helped you along in Vienna."

He shrugged. "Sure, but we never knew who he was. Disappeared before we could grab him. Operated alone, far as we could tell."

Holmes grinned in a rather predatory fashion. "He did. And I can forgive your people for leaving him unknowingly with a vengeful enemy at his back if you help me tonight to ensure that vengeance does _not_ get carried out. Or else we'll see just how fast I can connect the bombing to Müller and, by proxy, you, and what an embarrassment will _that_ be for your government."

Curiosity kept him from bristling too strongly at the threat. "Why? Who is he?"

The grin disappeared and his expression turned positively frigid. "My brother."

"Ah, _scheisse_."

X-X

**A/N: As always, thanks for taking the time to read. :-) Until next time, my friends-**

**-Lexi**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Whew! Apologies for the absence. That sleepless baby I mentioned popped five teeth through since the last chapter. It's been a bit of a miserable (and busy) time 'round here, and then we had issues getting internet in the new place after the move so I'm finally back.**

**But since I made you wait so long, I'll be posting the final chapter here and the epilogue right after. **

**Chapter 10**

It was Shostakovich's Tenth. Strangely fitting, given the circumstances. It probably appealed to the music student side of Müller, the one who had studied at the conservatory in Moscow during the Cold War and flirted with anarchist movements before building a criminal empire of his own.

How quaint.

The graying man was already in his seat as Sherlock approached, ten minutes before the doors of the hall were to close. He did not look over as the detective settled in beside him, simply closed his program and tucked it beside his leg. "You are early."

"I did not wish to risk any misunderstanding between us."

"Ah," Müller smiled faintly. "You worry for your friend." It was almost a question- whether he worried more for John than for Leila? He wasn't sure; did not acknowledge it. "He was quite put out by your letter. I wonder what you said to upset him so."

"As if you did not read it while we were upstairs."

The older man tilted his head sideways, curious, thinking. Observing. "But what was _not_ spoken in the letter? Your friend, he is a soldier, he knows sacrifice and loss. But then he is a doctor, compelled to heal, to fix. Does he try to fix you, Sherlock Holmes? Ah," he read something in Sherlock's impassive, inscrutable face, "or perhaps your friendship is so strong because he's the only one who never thought you needed to be."

Stoic silence, save a gentle huff.

"As I understand it, you forced him to watch your supposed suicide, before you began your violent quest for vengeance."

"I only used violence where absolutely necessary. At least your son went painlessly."

Müller pursed his lips and then faced front again. "Spite does not suit you, my friend." He watched the crowds file in around them for a minute before leaning over, so as to not be overheard. "I heard they found Delacruz in pieces."

"His were special circumstances."

"Not as special as Nadia though. She always did have a weakness for dark men, in every sense of the word."

A faint shudder ran through Sherlock and he scowled inwardly at the involuntary reaction. "If we're quite done rehashing my misdeeds." Müller shrugged affably. "The fundamental difference between you and I, Karl, is that you fail to see even now- revenge was never the motivating influence."

"Perhaps not in the beginning. Vengeance need not be for what Moriarty did, but rather what he forced you to become. But whatever eases your conscience, my friend. I shan't begrudge it."

The chime sounded, alerting the patrons that the doors to the hall would be closed in a couple of minutes. Correspondingly, the lights dimmed to half, and the noise in the hall dropped considerably with the ambience. Softly, almost inaudibly, Müller quoted, "How sad that there is no one else to lose, and one can weep."

X-X

John had an uneventful time sitting quietly and alternating between fuming at Sherlock, trying to conceive any wild idea that might prevent what was to happen from happening, and sinking into a depressive stupor when nothing came to mind.

The two men in the room with him did not engage him at all, probably per instructions. Müller returned very briefly to give him the final instructions on the exchange.

"When the time comes, my men will put you and the girl in a car, take you somewhere crowded." One of the big tourist spots, he supposed. "Sherlock will want to confirm you are away safely before he submits himself to me. When he calls, they will give you the phone and leave, you will take the girl, and that will be the end of our business together."

And then he was gone again, presumably headed off to wherever he was to meet with Sherlock and whisk him away to…

Christ, he wanted to scream; had to settle for clenching his fists and squeezing his eyes shut while focusing on remaining calm and not hyperventilating with the pent up rage and frustration. At one point, he opened his eyes and caught one of the men staring at him with an unreadable expression before he stood and crossed the room towards the sliding door that must have led to a balcony.

"Josef," his partner scowled at him, "wohin gehen Sie?"

"Zigarette." He glanced meaningfully up at the smoke alarm and stepped through, pulling the glass door shut behind him. Even John's cursory knowledge of German could figure out that exchange. Casting his eyes about the room for any sort of distraction, he caught a glimpse of a blue glow in one of the many mirrors in the ornate room, and realized it was reflecting off the balcony; the man who'd left for a cigarette was furiously tapping at his mobile.

When he walked back in five minutes later, John watched as he slipped his phone back in his pocket, along with a pack of cigarettes that, at least from his distance, looked suspiciously unopened.

Not that he trusted any of them, but John decided there was something especially unsavory about this man in particular. Was he communicating with his boss, did Müller have further instructions? When the appointed time approached and he was stiffly directed to quietly precede them to the lift and towards the room where Leila was being held, John made sure to be constantly aware of the man's halting movements and terse body language, even as he tried to smile unconcernedly to the hotel guests who exited the lift as they entered.

And so it was that when a commotion sounded in the hallway outside the upstairs room just moments after they closed the door behind them, his eyes darted first to where the man- Josef- was discreetly drawing a gun from his jacket, rather than to the corner of the room where the young girl sat huddled in an oversized chair. When the door to the room burst open, he froze and then cried out as the clamor of raised voices was followed quickly by an impossibly bright flash that burned his eyes and a deafening bang.

Stun grenade. Not the only one he'd ever encountered, but just as effective each subsequent time as the first. Abandoning the idea of acquiring a gun given the disorientation, he clasped his hands over his ears and stumbled in the direction he was pretty sure Leila was in, the sounds of her high-pitched screams vaguely rising over the ringing still in his ears. The bang of a gunshot cleared away more of the ringing and his heart froze in his chest, but the screaming continued unabated and he made it two more steps towards where she'd been sitting before he collided unceremoniously with a brick wall- or just a man in body armor- and fell back.

Clawing his way to his feet, still half-blind and half-deaf, he reached for the cowering girl just as another bright flash and bang rendered him utterly senseless again, and then he was falling forwards, a dull pain reverberating from the base of his skull and a different, darker sort of blindness overtaking his vision even as his ears struggled to recover from the second trauma.

His last conscious awareness before the blackness won over was the ringing resolving itself into screaming once more, and then falling abruptly and utterly silent.

X-X

_It was six weeks before she thought he looked himself again, or close to it. Nearly six months had passed between his departure and his reappearance in near delirium at Doctor Mihra's in the middle of one cold night two months ago- pneumatic, raging infection, wounds that were new enough to suggest a recent struggle and ones that were old and recurring enough to suggest he'd been held in captivity for the majority of his absence. _

_Imprisoned. Tortured. _

_She wanted so badly to ask him how he even made it back to Mumbai in that condition, how he found Doctor Mihra, but she doubted he even remembered. A primal desperation for survival, and for a man who could not go home, could not find comfort in family or his dearest friends- he'd clung to the need to reach anything familiar. In this case, his once rival, enemy; his one-time lover. She knew she was more than that, that lover was likely more of an afterthought, but there was no single word she could use to pinpoint the nature of their intermittent relationship these past few years. They weren't friends, never would be. Sherlock Holmes had carved out a bubble of genuine affection around his emotionless heart and set it aside for John Watson, that old landlady of theirs… precious few others if indeed any at all, perhaps not even his own brother. _

_Not friends, not lovers, no expectations or promises- yet still, the impact of his stoic words that calm morning, six weeks after he'd barely had the strength to walk through the front door, was cutting. _

"_I need to leave. Soon."_

_Hormones, she decided, bitterly blaming them for the sudden tightness in her throat, the rushing of blood in her ears. "Alright then." She looked up from where she sat reading on the sofa. "When?" _

_He was standing in the doorway, maintaining his distance. Not unusual for the past month and a half, she attributed it to a combination of residual shock or trauma from his captivity and being wholly unable to process the situation with her growing belly where his eyes were lingering before slowly reaching her face. "Within a week." She bit her lip to stop the instinctive follow up question, but he read it on her anyway, of course. "London." _

_That shock was several times the magnitude of the initial announcement of his impending departure. "How- is it… done then?"_

"_No," he visibly deflated at the admission, entering the room and practically collapsing into an armchair. His elbows rested on his thighs, head gripped in his hands. "But there is a man, cunning, patient… I tried to get at him for weeks before giving up and leaving the country in the hopes that he would follow. He's waiting for me to drop my guard, step back into my old life."_

_She bit her lip. "So what are you going to do?" _

"_Exactly that."_

"_And he'll try to kill you?" _

"_No," he blinked as if surprised she would make such an assumption. "He'll try to kill John and make me watch, just as Moriarty intended." _

_And the pieces all fell together, so long after he'd stepped onto her door step and into her world again. How Sherlock could bear to set out on his own, could bear to leave his best friend and brother thinking him dead. Moriarty hadn't tried to kill him, simply offered a choice- his suicide or the life of John Watson. Sherlock had taken the third option- breaking the heart of the person he cared most about, his own moral compass, in order to protect him. _

_But he'd never expected to go back. Never expected to unveil the ruse to John- why? Because he thought he would die in the effort?_

"_Why go back now?" Part of her was jealous, wanted him to just stay and endure exile with her, the price for survival. _

_He took ages to formulate his answer; it was not what she was expecting. "Too many innocent people are drawn into danger by merit of association with me; I'd like to ensure the safety of one before another enters the world."_

_In horridly embarrassing fashion, her eyes welled with tears and he looked immediately uncomfortable. It was so… morbidly sweet though. He planned to put himself in dire danger so that he might not spread his attentions too thin, monitoring for more threats in the future. If he ensured John Watson's safety, he could relax one front of defense. _

_But just as he had protected John these past few years by disappearing… an icy weight settled in her stomach. "You're not coming back. The truth, this time."_

"_The truth… there is a smart answer and a sentimental one; which would you prefer?" _

"_That's not fair." _

"_It was not fair of me to set foot on your doorstep nearly three years ago, yet here we are."_

X-X

Crowds thronged from the music hall for an intermission; as they stood along the upper terrace overlooking the lobby, the atmosphere hummed with electricity, still coming down from the fifty-minute exercise in frantic, passionate music. A triumphant climax. The parallels between Shostakovich's work and aspects of the history between the two men and their current situation were just begging to be drawn, but it was sheer coincidence that this performance should be taking place the day Müller's plan was necessarily carried out.

For a few minutes they stood like that, silent, observing the crowds beneath them, the formality and ceremony and forced social grace and propriety. Both men taken so far out of their usual society but brought together by the thing that had gained Sherlock access to Müller the first time, five years ago. The symphony. The music.

It ended where it began. The strange continuum on which his recent life had unfolded. Again, forced to make a choice, his life for that of another. Only this time, there would be no magic trick. Maybe- just maybe- a very small part of him was relieved. Being clever all the time did get so very exhausting.

"A drink for the road, my friend?" Sherlock slid his gaze sideways. "There is a lounge just around the corner."

But Sherlock's eyes lit onto a figure coming up the sweeping stairs to his right. A man, well-dressed in a smart suit, hardly out of place amidst this gathering. He was given away by the outline of a pistol grip visible through the right side of his jacket, and he was lowering a hand from his ear. Reporting a sighting of his target?

"Karl," Sherlock murmured, keeping the quickly ascending figure visible in the corner of his eye, "the man halfway up the stairs to your right- one of yours?"

"No," Müller returned as calmly as if he were reporting on the weather. "Nor is the one approaching from the other side."

A bit not good, then. He swept the upper level, following the exit signs, taking stock of the lifts, emergency stairwells, staff-only doors leading to the light and sound booths, the crowded doorways leading back into the auditorium.

"With me," Sherlock turned away from the terrace and fell into a passing group heading back towards their seats. As soon as they reentered the upper balcony though, he turned sharply and made his way quickly along the top row that was still nearly empty, hurrying across two sections before darting back out towards the terrace right by the technicians' entrance. "This should be… ah, yes," it was propped while the crew took their own breaks. Rather than head up towards where the light and sound techs would be working, he took the stairs down two at a time. Müller followed behind, barking into his mobile in German simultaneously.

When they reached the ground floor, Sherlock stuck his head out the door into the lobby. Quickly spotting more suspect figures, he hissed and pulled his head back and closed the door- and then found himself coughing and blinking stars from his eyes as his head collided rather unceremoniously with the concrete wall, Müller's hand at his throat, all but cutting off his air completely.

"I underestimated you, Holmes," he growled. "I knew you were cold, but to gamble with the life of your flesh and blood in such a way…"

"If you'd take a moment to observe," Sherlock choked out, "I'm trying to find you a way out."

The hand tightened at his throat- if he didn't think he'd be dead in the next couple of minutes, he'd worry about bruising. "Or you're trying to distract me from the raid on my team across the road."

"I don't know what-"

A knife appeared in Müller's free hand, and Sherlock promptly shut up. "I hadn't planned on doing this so unpleasantly- the pain and the mess- but it seems my time is running out." The knife edge teased along his jaw for a moment, before the older man, eyes wild and enraged, chuckled mirthlessly. "And I thought you might beg for your life."

"I already forfeit my life, I hardly see the use in asking for it back."

"Smart man," Müller leaned in close, cruelty etched in every line of his face, "but the premise of the deal is null."

"What do you-? No," the manic glint in those cold eyes sent an icy wave crashing through him. "You're lying."

"Wasn't even my men that did it. Caught in the crossfire. Your doctor was down too, last Josef saw before he slipped away."

He barely even felt the pinprick as the knife lightly broke the skin under his left ear. Blood was rushing in his ears and his vision was tunneling and going fuzzy around the edges; the sounds of a commotion in the lobby could be heard and above that, the noise of police sirens nearby outside- for them, or was Müller telling the truth, were Leila and John really right across the road...?

The door banged open and three armed men rushed in, yelling something at them that Sherlock didn't quite understand, and it took him a moment to realize that they were speaking in German and he just couldn't focus enough to make out the excited words. Müller faltered- surprised by the nationality of their assailants, it seemed- and with a wordless cry of fury, Sherlock twisted from under his grip, felt the knife scrape deeply into the side of his neck and the warm blood starting to flow freely.

The next seconds were a blur of shouts and pain and blood, and when he regained a semblance of lucidness brought on by the press of a cold muzzle against his temple, he was on his knees beside the older man, whose knife was now somewhat inexplicably protruding from his own chest. Close enough to his heart to be fatal; far enough to prolong it for a minute, a painful minute.

Later, Sherlock would never be able to decide if his aim had been slightly off-target in the scuffle, or if he'd been vindictively purposeful about it. Didn't really want to know, in the end.

X-X

The effects of the flash grenade should have worn off faster, but it had been accompanied by one hell of a blow to the head, and the rush of blood and pain as he was roughly dragged to his feet left John wishing they would just leave him on the floor and let him curl up and take a well-deserved nap.

And then he remembered where he was and who he was supposed to be watching over, and he forced himself into full consciousness, ready to demand answers and looking wildly around for Leila. "Where… where is she?" he croaked. A response in harsh German greeted him as his arms were twisted roughly around behind his back, the cold of handcuffs securing them in place. "Wha-? Hang on…"

Men in assault gear were sweeping the room, pulling up two of Müller's men. One looked to be shot in the arm, another lay dead on the floor. John saw no sign of the suspicious one who had brought him upstairs, and he saw no sign of the girl. "Where is she? Damn it," he demanded even as they started to frog-march him from the room, "where is she?"

His demands went unanswered through a ride in the lift that seemed to take an eternity. The lobby of the hotel and the area immediately outside had been cordoned off, the rest of the guests on lockdown, he supposed. Some cars from the Met were still arriving, but whatever was going on here was clearly not quite their area.

Just outside the ornate lobby doors, he found a familiar figure, leaning stiffly on his usual umbrella, looking out over the scene with an expression of extreme distaste on his face. A man in a sharp suit by his side was barking orders in German. "Mycroft?" The elder Holmes brother turned and grimaced at him. "Mycroft, what did you do?"

"Per usual," he sniffed. "Cleaning up my little brother's mess." He nodded at the two men escorting John, and the cuffs were quickly removed from his wrists.

"But we… we had a…"

"A _deal_, John?" Mycroft positively glowered at him. "You'll forgive me if I don't think much of your little arrangement. How you could even let him do such a thing escapes me, after all he's put you through. Is Sherlock's life worth so little to you now?"

_But_… the flash of something in Mycroft's eyes, a bit of pain and guilt and anger and fear and… _Oh, god. _"Damn you, Mycroft Holmes, _what did you do_?" He followed Mycroft's reluctant gaze towards an ambulance where a stretcher was being loaded. Unhurriedly, meaning… _no, no, no…_ the draped figure was small, too small, and John crouched down, breathing heavily, willing the wave of nausea to pass, muttering obscenities and denials under his breath.

"There was nothing to be done," Mycroft got out thickly. "A stray bullet in the raid… by the time they got her down here, she was already…"

"And… and Sherlock?" John choked out, still down on the ground, trying to get himself back under control.

The figure beside Mycroft leaned away, listening to a device in his ear, it seemed- then he turned around and nodded sharply at them. "They've got him. More or less unharmed."

"_More or less_?" Mycroft demanded, but he was cut off by a furious shout.

"MYCROFT!" John stood, turned, and paled. Sherlock was being practically dragged towards them, a substantial amount of blood on his coat and hands, a wound that looked to still be bleeding at his neck as he continually twisted away from one of his escort's attempts to staunch the flow in his anger.

A black car pulled up to the curb in front of them. "Get in the car, Sherlock," Mycroft told him quietly. "It's not a request."

Sherlock caught sight of John and he faltered, looking relieved if only for a fleeting moment. "John- he told me…" his eyes darted around the scene wildly. "Is she…?"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said, voice forcedly even. "It was a regrettable accident. Get in the car."

An expression of utter anguish twisted Sherlock's face- it was a look John would never have dreamed possible for the man who was ever in control of his emotions. He stopped struggling, slumping exhaustedly against the man who finally took the opportunity to firmly press a bandage against the bloodied part of his neck- and then he cursed as, the moment their grips on his arms slackened, Sherlock lunged forward and landed a blow to his brother's jaw. John reached him before the two who had manhandled him across the plaza, and he pulled him backwards as Mycroft rubbed his jaw and touched a split lip gingerly, but remained otherwise impassive at the assault.

"Sherlock," John turned him around, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he pulled him down into a fierce embrace as the anger resolved itself back into an expression of dazed loss, and he nearly lost his own composure again as he felt the heaving sobs of the detective.

Mycroft looked on with an indescribable expression before clearly his throat lightly, almost cautiously. "Sherlock, if you don't wish to see photographs and read all manner of gossip and speculation of tonight's events in tomorrow's _Mail_, I suggest you do as I say." When he pulled away, his face was dry, expression collected once more. John could barely see the underlying tension threatening to overwhelm him. He stiffly acquiesced and slid into the backseat. John made to follow, but Mycroft held up a hand. "I need a word with my brother, alone."

A fist clenched involuntarily by his side. "You realize what you've done here? You've killed him, Mycroft, just as effectively as Müller would have done. This will destroy him."

"Get your head checked," Mycroft ordered quietly. "Thomas will escort you afterwards."

He dully went through the motions, unable to wrap his mind around the night's events, unwilling to speculate what would become of Sherlock now, what the guilt would do to the man who had nearly been torn apart by his first encounter with Müller. In an effort to not think about it for just a few minutes, he begged a mobile off one of the medics and called Mary. It was late, past Daniel's bed time, but he just needed to hear her voice, be reassured that they were okay.

"John?" she sounded terse, on edge. "John, is that you?"

Right- strange number. "Yeah," he managed. "It's me. Everything's- I'm fine," he adjusted lamely.

"What happened? I haven't heard from you in hours."

"I- it's a long story. But I'm alright. I just…" he stopped and took a deep breath, willing his voice to remain even, not to break. "I wanted to hear your voice; make sure you both were okay."

"We're fine, of course we are. Daniel's been in bed for a half hour already. Are you coming home?"

It occurred to him that he wasn't sure what Mycroft had meant when he said his PA would escort John. Home? To wherever Mycroft had spirited Sherlock away? "Soon," he promised. "Sorry, I can't say exactly when, things are- I'll explain soon as I can," he promised.

"Okay," he could hear the anxiety in her voice. "Stay safe."

The car ride seemed to last ages; to Mycroft's then. He'd rarely had occasion to visit the Holmes family estate, had only seen it once since Sherlock's return three years ago, shortly after he'd come back from…

He stopped that line of thought right there and let his head thump against the window, falling into a drowsy stupor in the effort to just _not think_. About any of it.

Once inside, he was led to a wing of the house he had never had reason to visit before- in fairness, most of the house fit that description, and as Mycroft lived there alone, he assumed most of it was untouched on a regular basis. As he passed two obviously armed guards, he wondered if they were a usual part of the décor or a special addition for tonight, given the day's events.

One of the guards opened the door outside which they were posted and he found himself in a stuffy sitting area inhabited only by Mycroft, who was on a sofa watching the news. It was a rather incongruously pedestrian thing for the stiff government official, watching telly, but he switched it off as soon as his eyes lit upon the doctor.

"The whole thing is a media fiasco; predictable."

John just stared. Was that all he could truly bring himself to care about right now? "Where's Sherlock?"

"He's fine. Have a seat, John."

"I can promise you, he's not fine." He remained standing. "Look, I wouldn't dream of telling you this under normal circumstances, but this whole thing with Müller, what he wanted revenge for, it really tore Sherlock up. He was incredibly depressed, and if you don't think this will be _drastically_ worse-"

"John, I can assure you-"

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, pacing manically in front of the couch while Mycroft watched him with a long-suffering look, "This is just what you do, isn't it? Act all concerned and kidnap me because you're _oh so worried _about him, but then when it's something personal staring you in the face you can't handle it, just like with Moriarty, and now your brother has lost a _child_ for Christ's sake and-!"

"John." Sherlock was sticking his head out from the door opposite the one through which John had entered. "Come here."

"Jesus," he wondered briefly how much of that Sherlock had heard, "are you okay?"

Sherlock exchanged a quick glance with Mycroft, who tapped his watch and raised his brows warningly as he stood from the sofa. The younger brother nodded, and then turned his attention back across the room. "Just come. Quickly," he added with a strained smile. He looked worn and somber, but the wild-eyed devastation and fear were gone from nearly an hour earlier.

John followed stiltedly, entering into a huge but sparsely furnished bedroom. And sitting on the bed…

He slumped against the door, utter relief flooding through him. In another minute, an hour, a day, he'd be angry at the deception, confused at how and why it was accomplished, but for now… he didn't think he could be more ecstatic to see the once familiar face of Irene Adler, sitting on the bed and stroking her hand through her daughter's dark curls, Leila's head resting in her lap.

"The sedative hasn't worn off," Sherlock murmured. "Probably won't for a while, she was still recovering from the first dose. But… well, I wanted you to finally meet her today and this is the best I can do."

That was fine, of course it was. He could get a proper introduction later but for now, he just closed his eyes and wondered how he ever dared doubt that the two of them had something up their sleeves. Three of them really, Irene Adler was no stranger to such deception.

Mycroft's voice sounded through from the other room. "Look at his neck and hand, would you? He won't let anyone else touch him."

So John took the proffered medical kit and cleaned and dressed the wounds while Sherlock hissed and cursed at him. "What happened?" John frowned down at the deep cut on his hand. "Knife wound?"

"I grabbed it by the blade. Clearly, I did not have my best mental faculties about me at the moment."

He did not stay for long, did not wish to intrude on the bittersweet reunion of the unlikely family before him. When he left the room a half hour later, Mycroft was already waiting to escort him to the car that would take him home. As they walked, Mycroft gave what struck John as the closest thing to a sincere apology the older man could manage.

"The deception performed this evening… Sherlock spent so long working outside the law, he hardly trusts the effectiveness of those inside it. Nor has he ever trusted in the sort of work I do, as you well know. Had Müller slipped away…"

"The Germans were watching him then?" Mycroft nodded stiffly. "They let him go," John surmised. "Of course. Stupid." He hesitated, unsure if he was pushing his luck on official interstate secrets. "What happened to him then? Müller? Is he back in custody?"

Mycroft's step faltered, just barely, but enough to give John pause. "Oh. Right."

When he arrived home after a long and quiet car ride, the house was dark and quiet, save the sound of the shower running. Hesitating a moment in consideration of not waking him up, John gave in to the temptation and slipped quietly into Daniel's room. It was only lit by the glow of a nightlight and the faint light of a streetlamp coming through the window, but it was enough to see the gentle rise and fall of his son's chest as he slept deeply, arms splayed wildly above his head.

He watched him for a minute, hovering over the crib and letting the relief at the calm, peaceful existence of his family wash over him, before he sat in the rocking chair across the room and leaned back heavily, physically exhausted and emotionally drained.

After five minutes passed, Mary appeared noiselessly in the doorway and waited for him to look up and acknowledge her. She raised her brows questioningly and then beckoned him out of the room, shutting the door softly behind them. Rather than press right away, she led him into the kitchen and, clad in her bathrobe and hair damp from the shower, set the kettle on and looked him over.

"Are you okay?"

He thought about Sherlock then; thought about when this had unknowingly started for John, in its own way, with Mycroft abducting him to ask about Sherlock's disappearances and Sherlock's subsequent refusal, sitting in the next room, to share any more details with John than he had his brother; thought about Sherlock holding Daniel at the end of that night and his general apathy to the boy at any other time and his reticence to visit them when he was a newborn; thought about how that had simply been written off as Sherlock's way with things and certainly no one had much expected him to act otherwise.

How much of that had instead been about being deprived a normal relationship with his own child? For a man who had always professed his separation from sentiment, John was beginning to suspect that Sherlock's clinical detachment was lost - perhaps pried away from him unwittingly and unwillingly- after all he had seen and done, all that had happened, during the three years John had believed him dead.

Mary handed him a cup of tea; he took a deep breath and told her everything.

X-X

**A/N: Epilogue to follow!**


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Mary, saint that she was, let him sleep in the next morning, even after he had been gone nearly the entire day before. He barely remembered her getting up at the same time as Daniel when he finally rose just before nine. Still in an old t-shirt and sweats, he started down the stairs to tell her to relax, put up her feet, and let him make up for his absence, but the low murmur of voices, one of them deep and undoubtedly male, gave him pause.

Before he could investigate their apparent visitor, Mary intercepted him at the base of the stairs, two empty teacups in hand. "Sherlock's here," she murmured, nodding in the direction of the living room. His question showed on his face and she shrugged. "Was already here when I got up, I've no idea when he arrived. Let himself in."

It vaguely occurred to John that he'd never given the detective a key to their place but he really couldn't bring himself to be bothered by that fact at the moment. Going 'round the corner, he popped his head into the room and looked questioningly at Sherlock. "Everything alright, mate?"

"Yes," he murmured, "fine." He waved his hand absently, eyes on Daniel as he stacked wooden blocks in the corner. "Just… stopped by."

_Stopped by_? Sherlock didn't _just_ do anything and certainly nothing so aimless as _stopping by_. "Right- well, I'm going to grab some coffee."

Mary followed him into the kitchen and leaned across the counter watching him as he went about setting the coffee pot. "I think he wants to talk to you, alone; he hasn't really said much since I got up. I'm going to take Daniel to the park." A flash of guilt must have been readily visible, but she just smiled. "It's fine. After last night, he probably needs you a little more right now."

After getting their son bundled against the chilly November morning and arming herself with a hot cup of coffee, Mary left with a friendly goodbye to the two men. John handed Sherlock a steaming mug and then settled onto the sofa beside him, regarding him curiously over his own cup and trying to decide whether to let the detective break the silence in his own time. When five minutes passed, however, and his coffee already half-gone, he figured some gentle prompting might be in order.

"Sherlock? What's going on? I thought you'd still be at Mycroft's with…" he trailed off as Sherlock looked away, catching the briefest flicker of sadness across his usually stoic face. "Sherlock?"

He did not speak for several minutes; each passing moment heightened the unease John felt, even though he knew that no harm could have come to them at Mycroft's. Finally, oh so quietly, he murmured, "I let Leila go, John."

"Oh." _Oh_. Last night, when he'd just wanted John to see her, even if she were asleep… "Ohh."

"Mycroft arranged it but even he doesn't know where they'll end up. New lives, new…everything."

_It's just, well…_

_What?_

_You'll never see her again. _

_Why would I want to see her again?_

It was strange, how past events had twisted themselves around. If only that had been true seven years ago. But then, how different would Sherlock's exile have been? Would he have even survived it?

"It was the height of arrogance and folly, to think of bringing her here. I should have let her go a long time ago; I thought I had." He took a deep breath and let it out in a derisive huff. "Sentiment."

"Don't do that," John found himself rebuking firmly, without even thinking. "Don't talk like you regret anything."

"I don't, I just- in that moment, when I thought she was gone, that feeling, that paralyzing fear and despair beyond anything I've ever known, not when I was facing almost certain death, not when you had a bomb strapped to your chest… how can you stand to hold that kind of _caring_ every second of every day?"

A nauseated feeling settled in to John's stomach; Sherlock was a good actor, but he hadn't been acting. His response to Leila's 'death' had been genuine, Mycroft's plan had been put into place without his knowledge or consent.

Sherlock followed his thoughts. "He told me soon as we were in the car. Should have been obvious, really."

"He could have let me in on it a bit sooner," John grumbled.

"Actually- he insisted you stay behind so he could ask me if I _wanted _you to know the full truth."

John stared, dumbfounded at the idea he could have been left unknowing, believing the night had ended so horribly. "What'd you say?"

"I hit him again." He couldn't keep the chuckle restrained. "Mycroft's plan- he does not have a great deal of faith in the BND after yesterday's fiasco. He wanted things to appear… convincing… in case they failed to apprehend Müller." His skepticism must have showed, because Sherlock smiled thinly. "No, I don't think it was revenge for times past." He drew a deep breath. "I never apologized."

"To Mycroft?"

"To you. For doing to you what Mycroft did to me yesterday. I don't know that I ever fully understood-" he cut himself off and took a moment to compose himself. "It was necessary but it was cruel. And for that, I am sorry."

An unprompted apology from Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes with a child. The world really had gone and utterly rearranged itself while John Watson wasn't paying attention.

"Do you think you'll ever be able to see them- her- again?" Somehow, he suspected that Sherlock would be okay with never seeing Irene Adler again, were she not tied now to his only flesh and blood relative besides Mycroft.

"Oh," he murmured, "eventually. When she's older and I'm just a shadow of a memory of her early life. After I've retired from a life that earns me too many enemies and she's no longer so vulnerable. Rest assured, Irene will raise her to be competent in facing potential dangers in her life."

Years, then. When she was an adult, or close to it.

"Besides," a slight smile touched Sherlock's lips, almost sly, "Mycroft is unlikely to further the Holmes line and he'll need an heir."

The laugh escaped before he could reign it in. "That'd be a turn-up, wouldn't it? Think Mycroft's worst nightmares ever put the means of the British government so close to Irene Adler's hands again?"

"I expect not." Sherlock stood and crossed to the window, looking out over the lazy Saturday morning, taking in the couples strolling down the sidewalk on their way to brunch, a mother with a buggy, a young man with a dog on a leash. Normal people with normal lives, so dull, so ordinary.

And for once- so enviable.

X-X

The slow, unsteady rhythm- if one could indeed call it that, as Sherlock had snidely remarked a half hour before- of the tapping of his laptop keys filled the air of 221B. The smell of baking rose from the flat downstairs; Mrs. Hudson was in full swing preparing for Christmas, and John suspected he'd have a few dozen cookies and a pie or two to take home to Mary and Daniel by the end of the day.

John glanced up from where he'd been hard at work for the past two hours and, indeed, for many cumulative hours in the past two weeks. Sherlock was sitting in an armchair by the window, staring blankly out at the building opposite and the cold, grey winter sky. It might even snow that night, the weatherman said. Sherlock had called him imbecilic and turned off the telly to better his concentration.

"How's it coming then?"

It took Sherlock a minute to acknowledge him. "Almost finished," he murmured. "There's something missing, it's eluding me still…"

Well didn't he know that feeling? John stared at his laptop screen, knowing his work had to be just right, perfect, and afraid of falling far short of the mark. "You sure about this?"

"We've had this conversation a half-dozen times, John, you know how I hate to repeat myself."

"Yes, but-"

"Aha!" Sherlock jumped to his feet and snatched a pencil from the windowsill. "As ever, John," he murmured distractedly as he scribbled notes onto the composition paper perched on the music stand, "you manage to be a conductor of all manner of brilliance."

"Er…"

But Sherlock had seized his violin- the one Irene Adler had given him, John noted, though both were sitting by his feet- and rested it beneath his chin, reaching for the bow on the mantelpiece. John went quickly silent; despite hours of quiet contemplation and composition, it was the first he had actually seen the detective take up the instrument in his presence.

It was a long and somber piece but beautiful, even to John whose musical appreciation rivaled that of a tone-deaf drunk, as Sherlock had kindly informed him some years ago.

He played for nearly half an hour, and the music told a story, a long, complex, bittersweet, sometimes tragic, sometimes contented story that, in the past few weeks, John had finally heard in as full of detail as Sherlock cared or could bear to share. A story beginning when he set foot off of the roof of Saint Bart's and ending with the day they'd ventured to Heathrow and into Müller's trap. A story about Müller and his son, about deadly danger and boring reconnaissance, about those precious weeks stolen when possible to rest and recover in Mumbai. About Irene, and about Leila.

When he was done, he stood and stared out the window down onto Baker Street below for a few minutes, collecting himself. His expression was schooled when he turned, and John nodded once. "Alright, then?"

"Hm." Sherlock sat back in his chair. "Could use a little polishing."

"It was brilliant, I thought."

A rare smile touched the detective's lips as he set to plucking at the strings, deep in thought. John turned back to his laptop, but it was only a few minutes before Sherlock's phone buzzed and the plucking stopped.

"From Lestrade, he's got a case- brilliant!" Gingerly replacing his instrument in its case, Sherlock then leapt to his feet, a sudden energy suffusing the room. "Hurry, John, he wants us to meet him at the crime scene in Wandsworth. Body in a locked vault…?" he was already texting Lestrade furiously, clarifying details.

Laughing at his friend's enthusiasm as he dashed about getting ready, John quickly glanced through what he'd written one more time. Sherlock hovered at the threshold of the doorway, pulling on his gloves. "John, it can _wait_," he whined.

"Go on down," he waved him off, "I'll be right behind you."

For once, Sherlock obeyed him and he smiled wistfully as he made one final change and published the carefully censored account he'd spent the past two weeks refining.

His first post to his blog in six years; 221B, open for private clients once more. For both of them, it was accepting and coping… and it was moving forward.

_The Reichenbach Fall _and _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_

X-X

**A/N: A final big thank you to everyone who read, followed, and favorited and, of course, reviewed! I had a lot of fun writing this story these past couple months, and I hope you all enjoyed.**

**-Lexi**


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